Innocence
by chipzixo
Summary: In some strange way, she wished that Jim were with her now. Or Sherlock. Or even Dr. Watson. They would know what to say, how to stop them. They probably wouldn't even need the police protection at all. She wanted to be more like them. Less like Molly.
1. Prologue

**[YAY, THE PROLOGUE'S BACK UP]  
Updated AU; Okay, so, with the release of the new series, I think it's safe to say that this story is now an AU, wherein Molly (and the other characters, ofc) follow a very different route from canon. It was started before the new series, obviously, so some characters might not match up to their interpretations in the show, no matter how brilliant they were in it, *cough*Irene*cough*, sorry!  
Anyway, I hope you like it, and don't forget to review :)  
Onwards!**

Innocence._  
_

_Prologue.  
_

_He's there. He's always there._

_The girl stands, cold and wet from the rain, peering through the darkness to try and get a good look at him. Her hair sticks to her forehead and the concrete floor digs into her bare feet as she squints and stares._

_But of course, it's him. It's always him._

_More out of hope than anything else, she takes a step forward - just to be sure. And then she sees him clearly._

_The grey sheets of rain don't seem to affect him; he's standing, arms at his sides and eyes narrowed, his hair ever perfect and his clean-cut suit pristine. The darkness seems to stick to him as if it were actually of some substance - it pours in around his face, trying to hide his dark hair and pale face, shadows falling across his cheekbones. It clings to him as if it were a part of him. Thin wisps of mist pool around his feet, looking like smoke and giving him a look that's almost supernatural. Taking his eyes away from the girl for a moment, he glances to his shoulder and brushes an invisible mark off his jacket. Then, he turns back to her and he smiles - that cruel, madman's smirk she can't seem to get out of her head, his dark eyes glittering in the dim moonlight with something uncomfortably close to insanity. Terrifying, and yet so familiar._

_Not for the first time, the girl turns and runs._

_As always, he follows straight away, his smirk widening into a grin as he strides behind her._

_Her thin dress billows around her as she runs, her hair peeling from her face and blowing behind her. She runs so hard, her breathing rugged and heavy and her own blood pounding in her ears, as her feet start to bleed from running on uneven ground without shoes. She has to escape._

_She dares to look behind her, hoping that for once, she's lost him. But he's there. He's always there._

_And then he speaks._

_His voice is like caramel; soft, smooth and almost comforting, persuading her to stop. But the girl knows better. There's venom behind his words - hidden poison threatening to strike if ever she slows down._

_"Molly," he seems to sing, "you don't have to run from me."_

_But she does, she knows she has to, and so she keeps running, trying desperately to get away. But her energy is failing and her breaths are shallow - the wind is biting at her skin, it's unforgiving cold fighting with the unbearable heat coursing through her veins as she runs. Tears stream from her stinging eyes - each raindrop feels like a bullet on her bare skin. Her legs begin to slow inadvertently, and the man behind her laughs, tainted with evil and poison, his mask slipping for just a second, revealing the man underneath. He hasn't even broken a sweat._

_"You can't run forever, Molly," he says, the pitch of his voice dropping, "I'll always be right behind you."_

_The girl runs on, now sobbing amongst her shallow breaths, and she knows he's right. She can't run forever - she'll have to stop at some point. And he'll be there. He's always there._

_She can hear his footsteps behind her; echoing like thunder across the empty street. Mist rolls across the floor around her, it's thin, wispy tendrils crawling up her ankles, coaxing her, trying to persuade her to stop. They're like tree roots, each another obstacle, trying to trip her up. _

_The mist is thickening now, her breath shorter than ever. She can't see the floor, but she keeps going anyway, each step a step into the unknown. Her chest heaves, each frantic breath burns her throat like acid. But she has to keep running – he's still behind her, she can hear him breathing. He can't catch her. She has to escape._

_There's a crack in the floor. She falls._

_Her knees connect with the pavement with a loud crack, and she can feel the grazes and bruises already. She puts her hands out to stop her face hitting the floor, and they take the full force of the fall. Her hands, feet and knees are cut and bleeding and she's cold and wet, shivering in the mist and rain. She kneels up and buries her face in her hands, sobbing so hard her whole body shakes. She daren't look behind her, for fear of what she knows is there._

_He hums - the girl hears him. It's almost sympathetic, almost comforting. The girl feels his jacket fall around her shoulders; it's dry, but colder than the air around her, as if carved from dry ice. She freezes when it touches her, she can't move her legs as much as she wants to escape, and fear knocks the breath out of her again._

_She lowers her hands and he's there, kneeling in front of her, still dry. His dark eyes seem as endless as the night above them, a window to his true self - empty and dark, with no space for anyone else. His marble face softens as he looks at her, the only trace of his true self the twisted smirk spreading across his face like water._

_"Silly Molly," he croons, pushing her hair from her face. She wants to flinch away but she can't, eyes wide as he smiles at her in a way that makes her stomach churn. The velvet mask on his voice slips once more, and his words hit the girl right in her heart, cold, unfeeling, evil._

_"I was always going to catch you. It was just a matter of when."_

_He puts his arms around her and the girl wants to scream, but she can't. She's trapped between his icy arms, held in his possessive embrace. She just stares ahead as he whispers in her ear; she can practically hear the grin in his voice._

_"Nobody escapes from James Moriarty." _

Molly Hooper awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Her hair was plastered to her forehead and her breathing ragged and shallow.

It only began to slow when she heard the cat purring at the foot of her bed.

It was just another dream; he wasn't here. She was alone. Safe.

There were police outside, there always was - they would protect her, they had promised. They were her safety net – a thin web of , always watching, waiting for him to come back to her.

There was a creak from another room – probably the wind, maybe the cat trying to get out of the room, but it was enough to make Molly's heart rate rocket again, her breathing becoming just as laboured as before. She tried to calm down, maybe even get back to sleep, trying to convince herself of what her rational brain knew to be true.

He couldn't get to her, he couldn't hurt her. Not like before.

And yet, the thought of her ex-boyfriend's face scared Molly more than anything else in the world.


	2. Chapter 1

**Thankyou so much to my reviewers! :') I'm glad you're "intruigued" ;D. I'm hoping I'm able to take this story in a way you won't expect.  
I, too, have always been interested in the way Molly would react. Well, obviously - that's why I'm writing this :')  
Here's the new chapter. Don't worry, the next one's much longer - I'm already about halfway through, so it shouldn't be long before I get it up. This chapter is setting foundations that the prologue couldn't - not giving anything away, or anything. :')  
Thanks again guys, I love reading your reviews. So don't forget to tell me what you think :)**

**And also- Merry Christmas! :D**

_Chapter One._

In all honesty, there was no point moping about it.

Molly had never been the kind of person to show her feelings anyway - not in the cold, heartless way, but rather in a shy, reserved kind of way. If she could help it, then she wouldn't tell anybody how she was feeling. Not that anybody ever asked.

So she kept her fear to herself. The morgue had offered her months upon months of compassionate leave for 'the shock' whilst she was under police protection, but she insisted on returning almost immediately. It gave her something else to think about, at least, keeping his face out of her head.

Because as much as Molly Hooper tried to lie to herself and everyone else around her, pretending that everything was okay and that she wasn't scared at all, inside she was dying. She couldn't sleep at night, she couldn't walk down the street without checking over her shoulder every now and then, and she couldn't - wouldn't - talk about it. About him.

Jim.

Even his name made her shiver. She knew he was out there. And she knew he would come after her. It was just a matter of when.

The thin web of police protection did barely anything to calm her fears. All it did was give her the courage to actually try and sleep at night - if she was lucky, she'd get half an hour before she woke from her nightmares.

But still, the next day, she'd cover the bags and dark circles with concealer and foundation, plaster on a smile as she left the house and head to the morgue as usual. Normally, she'd spend most of the day alone; the other people in the workplace never knew what to say to her, and as much as Molly pretended, she knew they were always thinking about it. About him. It seemed it was infectious.

Nobody could look at her without pitying her. And Molly hated that.

So she distanced herself from the other people in the lab, didn't go out with them after work ever again, preferring instead to spend the majority of her time either with the dead or her cat. But, of course, there were those times - those special, wonderful times - where he'd come along, looking for some body or another.

Sherlock Holmes didn't see the point in sympathy, it seemed. He didn't see the awkwardness between Molly and the rest of the world the way other people did - it simply didn't function in his head. Nothing changed in their relationship after Jim - if you could call it a relationship at all. Molly went on silently admiring the man, blushing when he spoke to her and jumping at the chance to be just in the same room as him, and he went on acting completely oblivious, even though it was obvious he wasn't from the quips he shot at her from time to time. But Molly didn't care. She was too grateful to have a constant in her life. To have him in her life.

The first day Molly returned to work, he swaggered into her lab as if nothing had happened, a couple of stitched-up gashes across his head and a limping Dr. Watson in tow. The kind-hearted doctor had given Molly an understanding smile, something which she appreciated. It wasn't pitying, nor was it awkward. It was empathetic. He knew what she was going through better than most - better than people who hadn't been involved, who couldn't understand, and better than Sherlock, to whom human emotions were nothing but chemicals and numbers.

Dr. Watson offered to talk to Molly about the whole affair, but she declined. As the months went by, however, Molly found herself unable to stop herself talking with the man - it was as if he drew it out of her. Whereas Sherlock was a wall, who didn't talk about anything to anyone but John, Dr. Watson was welcoming and warm. It was him and only him that Molly had spoken to Jim about in the past six months, and he didn't seem to mind.

Sherlock, on the other hand, acted completely nonchalant, discarding the explosion he'd been involved in as nothing but another case. He came into the morgue from time to time - sometimes accompanied by DI Lestrade, another man who didn't know what to say to Molly, and always accompanied by Dr. Watson. Absolutely nothing changed. He still ignored her. And without Jim from IT to distract her, Molly couldn't help but fall for him again. Hard.

She tried not to think of him, she really did; after all, it was nigh on impossible that anything was ever going to happen between them, she'd accepted that long ago. But she couldn't help herself. Not only was it a distraction from her maniac ex, but he was so damn difficult _not _to think of.

He was enigmatic, intelligent, and god damn beautiful. He swanned about the labs like he owned them, like he knew he was better than everyone there - which, of course, he was. His mind was one of a kind - perfect, as sharp and cold as ice. He didn't feel, he didn't care, he just... thought. Investigated. Deducted.

And Molly could watch him work for years.

She knew it was dangerous to offer her entire heart to a robot who was sure to never take it, but really, she didn't care. He was just so perfect.

So unlike Jim... and yet so alike him in other ways. But Molly tried not to think of their similarities.

As she arrived in the lab that day, alone, as always, she found herself wishing once again that he'd show up. It had been over a week since his last visit - surely another case had come up since then? Really, the dreams were getting too much. Molly needed a more significant distraction.

But, no. All that awaited her in the lab was a bored-looking DI Lestrade leaning against a cupboard.

"Um... Inspector Lestrade?"

He seemed to wake up with a start as he turned to face her, his expression softening into a smile. "Hi, Molly. You alright?"

Molly was already suspicious as she peeled off her coat and put her bag down. Then she turned to face the man, her brow furrowed slightly. "I'm fine, thanks," she said, not elaborating, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

The man looked taken aback at the fact Molly hadn't returned the pleasantries. "Yes, actually..." he said, pushing himself upright, "I need to see the results of an autopsy."

Molly nodded. "Sure. What name?"

"Baker. Janice Baker."

She smiled a tight-lipped smile and turned to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. DI Lestrade followed her. The now familiar awkward silence fell; Molly knew it was only a matter of minutes before the man tried to fill it.

DI Lestrade was a kind, gentle man. He ran his section of the Police Force well - he was a good boss, a friendly boss. He lived alone, Molly knew that, and spent most of his time in his office drinking cheap coffee and trying to avoid Sherlock. He did, however, admire the younger man. That was obvious to everyone. And it seemed sometimes that the respect was mutual - that maybe, DI Lestrade fell into that ultra-exclusive category of people who Sherlock could stand to be around.

Most of all, though, once DI Lestrade had something in his head, he wouldn't let it go. Whether it be a case, building a friendship or concern for a colleague. So Molly knew he'd start trying to fill the silence soon enough.

"Molly..." he seemed to sigh. Molly hummed in response.

"Are you sure you're alright?" She ignored the question, so he continued. "It's just that... well, I've heard you've started isolating yourself - the other people in the lab seem worried about you, Molly-"

"Where's Sherlock?" She interjected, cutting him off, "Isn't it him who usually does the legwork down to the morgue?"

Lestrade paused. "He's with a friend, he said. Didn't come in today."

Molly tried to voice a noncommital hum, but found it difficult. A 'friend'? Sherlock didn't have friends. What was going on?

Lestrade interrupted her train of thought.

"You know, Molly, it's okay if you need to talk to someone - after what you've been through, anyone would-"

"Janice Baker." Molly interrupted, pulling the file from the drawer. "Here you go." She handed it to the defeated-looking detective. "Anything else?"

She tried to smile brightly. He shook his head. "No. Thanks, Molly."

"Well then," she said nonchalantly, walking past him, "if you don't mind... it's just, you know, I've got a lot of work to do."

She continued to face the wall, but heard the man sigh. "Sure, I understand. But, Molly - just think about what I've said, yeah? Please, you don't understand - you need to tell someone how scared you are, I can see it - but they won't believe me unless you tell them."

Molly bit her lip. "See you later, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

She heard the man leave and sighed, turning around and leaning against the wall.

Was this what she'd been reduced to? Someone who couldn't even hold a decent conversation with someone who was actually trying to _help _her? Someone who wouldn't admit there was something wrong - that she couldn't sleep at night for fear?

She'd pushed him away just like she'd done to so many others. He had sounded a bit desperate, too - actually worried. What was it he'd said - 'they won't believe me'? Who wouldn't believe him? Who cared if she was scared or not? Nobody had ever shown an interest before. They'd stuck her under police protection and shut her away when she might have actually been willing to talk about it, and now she found herself unable to voice any feelings and clinging to the police protection as the only good thing left in her life.

Molly shook her head and tried not to think about it, choosing instead to concentrate on the mystery of Sherlock's new 'friend'.


	3. Chapter 2

**Hello again :) Thanks again to my lovely reviewers :D You really make my day.  
Also, thankyou to my lovely Beta GoogleEleanor, who Beta-ed this chapter and will be doing so from now on. So, hopefully the grammar and stuff will be a lot better now than in the first chapter and the prologue! :')  
Here's Chapter Two. It does get a bit angsty, but the next chapter is less so. This is an important part, too, so I'm glad this is moving along :)**

**Thanks again :)**

Chapter Two.

Molly returned to work the next day, the same as always, this time with no DI Lestrade waiting for her in her lab. As usual, the nightmares had kept her up most of the night, but she smiled brightly at the people she passed on the way in.

She had a good feeling about today. And that didn't happen often.

The body that DI Lestrade had come in to examine the previous day turned out to be part of a much larger case. She had been brought in around a week ago, tell-tale signs of hanging around her neck. There were deep marks where the rope had cut into her neck and almost no other marks on her body, except for the scuffs on her otherwise immaculate nails and shoes as she struggled and tried to claw the rope away from her neck, most probably realising she'd made a mistake. Molly could imagine it - as much as she wished she hadn't.

However, there were other marks on her body. Not many, that was sure, but some. Around her arms, around her neck where the rope hadn't touched - it looked like she'd been man-handled quite harshly. So, as the rest of the pathologists dismissed the case as suicide, Molly ran a toxin scan on the vicitm's blood.

The results had come in yesterday. It's facts were clear - Janice Baker had been drugged before she died.

But that wasn't the only reason Molly was in a good mood.

She'd got a call in the night - she didn't mind, she was awake anyway - asking if she could come in early to work. She happily obliged, thankful for another distraction. Plus, she wanted to be the first one to see this.

There was another body.

Janice Baker's eldest daughter - Eloise, aged 17 - had been brought in in the night, her wrists slit. Another case of seemingly suicide - but after Janice, Molly knew better. Before she put the phone down, she told the man on the other line to do a toxin scan on Eloise's blood. He obliged - a new boy, just starting out, on the night shift for extra money. Molly had seen him around before.

This time, Molly wouldn't let the morgue dismiss the case as suicide. Plus she knew that Lestrade wouldn't let it go - he would listen to her, and he'd notice that something was wrong. Especially after the toxin scan came back positive - which Molly was sure it would. She was sure this wasn't suicide. She was sure there was something else - something entirely more sinister going on with this case.

More importantly, she was sure Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist it.

In the end, she hadn't arrived in work any earlier than usual - blaming it on traffic to her boss. In fact, she had spent nearly an hour choosing an outfit for the day, doing and re-doing her hair, choosing make up. She had to look her best if Sherlock was coming in, no matter how futile her efforts undoubtedly were.

So, she strode into her lab head held high that morning, the room empty but for the body of Eloise Baker, covered up with a sheet. Molly set about getting ready for the autopsy immediately.

Just as she was pulling on her gloves, however, the man she'd spoken to on the phone came rushing into the room. Molly turned to him.

"Yeah?"

"The results came back on the scan - Molly, I think you'll want to read this."

Molly took the thin sheet of paper from his hands, scanning it and smiling. "Thanks," she said, grinning at him, "that'll be all."

He turned and left, offering her a smile, and she looked back to the paper, grinning - if possible - wider.

Eloise Baker had been knocked out with the same drug as her mother.

Oh, yes. This was going to be a _very _good day.

* * *

It was just as Molly had returned to her lab to look at the results in more detail that she heard the knock on the door.

She froze, wheeling around far too fast. Quickly checking her hair in the nearest reflective surface and trying to calm her butterflies, she called out "Come in!".

But as the door swung open, it wasn't Sherlock and co. on the other side.

DI Lestrade held the door open for a sharp-looking woman in a skirt-suit with a poker-straight blonde ponytail reaching down her back, pulled so tightly it gave her an instant facelift. Her lips were the same shade as her obviously false nails - deep, striking red. Her eyes were framed with square black glasses and she looked at Molly with a smile that said _'I don't really care about you, but I'm being polite'._

Molly recognised her and for the first time that day, her good mood faltered.

This was Emma Fischer - Miss. Fischer. How a 'Miss' got into a position as important as hers, Molly would never know; she couldn't have been much older than 35. But, of course, it wasn't polite to ask. Miss. Fischer was in charge of most of the police protection programmes in the area - she oversaw them, how intense they needed to be, how much they were needed and, most importantly, how long they lasted for.

"Hi, Molly," she said, her tone the same sarcastic sweet as her smile, "Can we have a chat?"

An apologetic-looking DI Lestrade shut the door behind her, before turning to Molly with sad eyes that said 'I tried'. But Molly still didn't know what was going on.

Of course, she had an idea, but she wouldn't believe it. It couldn't be that.

"Sure," she said, keeping the quiver from her voice. Emma 'smiled' again.

"It's about your protection, Molly. You know, the one we put up to protect you from-"

"I know what it's there for," Molly interrupted, uncharacteristically rude. Emma looked a little taken aback.

"Well, yes," she continued, "Mr. Moriarty," Molly tried not to flinch at the name, "hasn't been in contact with you since last year, has he?"

Molly stayed silent. Emma looked stern. "I'll take that as a no. Of course he hasn't - we'd know about it. Well, Molly, it _has _been six months since we set up your programme, and it's at this time we have to review it. As I'm sure you're aware, these programmes take a lot of police effort and money to keep up, and we do like to finish them as soon as we evaluate that it's safe-"

"Please," Molly couldn't keep the shake from her voice now, Miss Fischer's words spinning in her head, "you can't take this away from me."

The woman looked at Molly as if she had some terrible disease. For the first time, Lestrade spoke.

"I told you, Emma," he said to the woman, who kept on ignoring him, "she's not ready for this. Leave it be - just for a little while."

"And I told _you, _Graham," she retorted, never taking her eyes off Molly, "these protection programmes aren't here as a personal safety net to make people feel better. They're reserved for people in actual danger."

Molly felt physically sick. Her knees felt weak. She couldn't keep the images from her nightmares from her head - his face, his twisted smile as he catches her, holds her, claims her as his own. She swore she heard him laughing, sending electric shivers down her spine, though of course, it was in her head. She felt tears stinging the back of her eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Molly defended herself.

"I _am _in actual danger," she tried to insist, although she wasn't even convincing herself, "Please - he'll come back, I know he will-"

"Highly unlikely, Miss Hooper. As I've already said, he has shown absolutely _no _interest over the past six months. No phone calls, letters, e-mails, secret meetings - nothing. I'm sorry." It was clear from her tone that she really wasn't.

"He's waiting." Molly said, her voice shaking, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks, "He's clever, Miss Fischer - you don't understand, he's so clever... he knows you'll leave me, he'll come back, I know he will-"

"I understand perfectly, Miss Hooper. James Moriarty is a psychopath - a mass-murdering genius of all proportions. Now, tell me, why would a man such as that waste his time with an innocent girl like yourself? You are of no interest to him."

The woman's harsh words hit Molly like a knife in the stomach; cold and fierce. She shook her head, but couldn't think of anything to say. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand.

She couldn't take away her protection.

DI Lestrade spoke again, louder than before. "She's his ex, Emma. Of course she's of interest to him."

Miss Fischer turned to him, speaking quieter, though Molly could still hear her. "She was used, Graham. She was a piece of the puzzle. A stepping stone to Mr Holmes. Nothing more."

That felt like another stab in the stomach. Molly was sobbing silently now.

"Please," she choked, unashamedly begging, all the fear she'd bottled up over the past six months spilling out, "don't. I'm scared, Miss Fischer. So scared. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't talk about him-"

Miss Fischer wheeled around. "Those are problems not solved by police protection, Molly. Those are problems solved by a psychiatrist. As I've said, I'm not your personal safety net-"

"I know things... he'll come back, I know he will-"

"Know things, Miss Hooper? Know what, exactly? And why haven't you mentioned it before? Anything that could help us with our investigation?"

She was shouting now, taking a step closer towards Molly. Molly flinched away. DI Lestrade tried to help; "Stop, Emma. Leave her alone."

"I don't think you understand just how serious this case is, Miss Hooper," she said, the volume of her voice dropping but her words just as fierce, "There are teams across the _country _looking for James Moriarty. This is much bigger than you. He is on the national Most Wanted list. Why would he bother with an ex? Surely, he'd have killed you by now. He doesn't _care _Miss Hooper, he never did. Get that into your head. Now, are you really going to jeopardise an entire investigation based on a childish fear of the impossible?"

Molly didn't say a word, she didn't look at the woman. Instead, she concentrated on her shoes, shaking, sobbing, wishing for it all to go away.

In some strange way, she wished that Jim were with her now. Or Sherlock. Or even Dr. Watson. They would know what to say, how to stop them. They probably wouldn't even need the police protection at all. Nothing scared them. They wouldn't cry in the face of a woman barely ten years older than them. They'd know exactly what to do.

Molly wished, not for the first time, that she was more like them.

"Miss Fischer, back off." DI Lestrade sounded stern now, but Molly didn't dare to look up, "Leave her alone or I'll have you done for assault. I think she understands that her protection is over, don't you? If we can't convince you then fine - but never, _ever _take it out on an innocent, defenceless girl like her."

Innocent. Defenceless.

That was Molly all over. The tears came harder.

She heard the click of Miss Fischer's heels as she advanced to DI Lestrade. "Don't talk to me like that, Detective Inspector, or I'll get your badge taken off you."

Lestrade scoffed. "You don't have the authority."

There was silence. Molly didn't even want to see what was happening. Finally, she heard the heels on the floor as Miss Fischer turned.

"Your police protection ends _today, _Miss Hooper. We can't help you any more. And Lestrade? Book her into a psychiatrist. That's an order."

Psychiatrist. So now Molly was crazy, as well as pathetic?

The click of the heels faded away and Molly tried to control her tears, still not looking up. She heard Lestrade walk towards her.

"Molly..." His voice was soft, kind, warm. Molly couldn't stand it.

He put his hand on her shoulder and she flinched away, looking him in the eyes for no more than a second. She could imagine her own look of fear, but he just looked confused. She quickly turned around and began to walk away, breaking out into a run as she left the lab and the tears came again.

She didn't need his sympathy. She didn't want it.

She wanted to be stronger. More like Sherlock.

Less like Molly.


	4. Chapter 3

**Hello again :) Thanks again to all my lovely reviewers and my Beta :) I'm liking the way this story isn't taking forever to get to the point like my others tend to x)**

** Also, I like the way you're guessing what's going to happen next. Keep doing that! Ahaha, it makes me happy x)  
Anyway, Onwards! Here's Chapter Three x)**

Chapter Three

It took a long time for the tears to stop. Even then, Molly was shaking like mad.

But she wouldn't go home. She'd see the day through. She didn't need special treatment.

She worked silently for hours in her lab, but couldn't quite bring herself to carry out the autopsy on Eloise Baker. Her good mood that morning was nothing but a distant memory, more like a dream than reality. As if Molly could ever be happy without something ruining it. It was like he was always there, like a cloud over her head, ruining everything. Her entire life.

Nobody visited her. No doubt they'd all heard. Molly didn't think she'd see any other lab workers for at least a week. Probably longer.

She wiped off all her make up she'd so pain-stakingly applied that morning - it was redundant now. Sherlock wasn't going to visit, and besides, it had run all down her face when she'd cried that morning. She covered up her perfectly arranged outfit that had taken hours to choose with a huge white lab coat - she wasn't in the mood now. She didn't care. She tied her hair back in the way she always did, taking all the pins and clips out she'd put in that morning. What did it matter what she looked like? She was always going to be pathetic on the inside.

She was always going to be Molly - the girl used by Moriarty, too afraid to go out alone, forever pitied.

She knew she was wallowing in self-pity, but she didn't care. If anybody deserved to, it was Molly.

Unexpectedly, Molly was drawn from her thoughts by a knock on the door.

She groaned, looking at the clock on the wall. It was 2.30. Only another three hours until this was all over. She thought she could survive until then, but not with visitors.

She ignored it when they knocked again. And again.

They really were insistent, whoever they were. Molly never took her eyes off her Petri dish.

That is, until they stormed in.

She span around so fast on her chair she almost fell off it. Then, when she saw who it was that had indeed stormed into her lab, she almost fell off again, somewhere between ecstatic and wishing for the ground to swallow her up.

Sherlock froze when he saw her, his billowing coat falling around his thin legs. "I didn't think you were in here." He adjusted his scarf, his cold blue eyes apparently looking straight through Molly. As always, he looked impeccable, the very definition of perfection. His pale face and defined cheekbones looked as if they were carved from marble, standing straight, dressed in the usual long black coat and blue scarf. He could have been a statue, but for his eyes - icy blue and calculating, always alive, taking in their surroundings, every minute detail, a glimpse of the beautiful mind behind them. His mop of hair lay haphazardly on his head - he had no time for styling, but still, somehow, the curls looked... right.

Molly managed a very eloquent "Shmumphadenomeeble?"

It was Sherlock's turn to look at Molly as if she had some horrible disease. "Yes. Quite." He wheeled around, marching to the filing cabinet and began filtering through the files.

At the click of a crutch, Molly turned around to see the limping Dr. Watson entering the room. "Hi, Molly," he offered huskily, gesturing to Sherlock, "Sorry about him-"

"Why?" The younger man interrupted, turning to face the other occupants of the room.

John sighed, the signal that this was a common occurrence. He ran his hand through his short, dirty-blonde hair, leaning heavily on his crutch. His tanned face seemed to say 'are you absolutely kidding me?', and his warm blue eyes narrowed at his friend. They were kind, with smile lines around the edges, and a completely different colour to Sherlock's - never icy or cold. Not that Molly had seen, anyway. He was nowhere near as tall as Sherlock, and nowhere near as rude. But he was kind and intelligent, and bore a strong exterior - despite the broken man underneath that Molly had heard of, but never seen.

"I told you not to come in."

"Oh, what am I, your child, now?"

"Sometimes, it really does feel like it."

"Shut up. It's not like we didn't knock."

"Molly didn't answer the door."

"Yes, why was that?" Sherlock turned to her so abruptly that Molly was blown away, and, once again, all words fled from her head.

"I..."

"Sherlock, stop it. Leave it alone. Go back to doing... whatever you were doing, as long as it'll keep you happy."

Sherlock jutted his lip out like a petulant child at his friend, before turning back around. John looked back to Molly.

"Like I said, sorry."

Molly shook her head. "No... no, it's fine."

John offered a small smile to her. "It's the Baker case - you know, the mother and daughter..."

Molly felt a hole in her stomach. "Oh... yeah... actually, about that-"

"It was you, wasn't it?" Sherlock turned back around, piercing Molly with his eyes again. She couldn't do anything but hum in response.

"It was you, who ordered the tox report," he was advancing now, looking her up and down. Molly felt her breath catch in her throat, "You noticed something wasn't right, didn't you?"

Molly hummed again, uncomfortably high pitched. Sherlock took a pause that was far too long.

"Nice work. That was... impressive, for a normal-minded person."

All thoughts of admitting that she hadn't yet done Eloise's autopsy disappeared, as Molly tried to remember how to breath, basking in the light of Sherlock's compliment. All fear momentarily disappeared, as he looked straight at her, one half of his mouth slowly curving, a smile playing with his lips.

And there it was. The crooked, almost sarcastic smile of Sherlock Holmes, rarely seen. It took all Molly's strength to stay upright. She beamed and blushed and laughed nervously like a little girl.

"Thanks," she said quietly. And he returned to his filing cabinet.

Molly looked across to John, who was still leaning on his crutch, now grinning and shaking his head. Molly cocked her head at him, and he nodded towards her, eyebrows raised. Molly instantly knew what he meant, and blushed harder, all the way to her ears, a shy smile spreading on her lips.

It was obvious that Dr. Watson knew of Molly's affections for the detective, but she was fairly certain that he wouldn't tell.

"Are you looking for Eloise Baker's autopsy report, then, Sherlock?" Dr. Watson's words reminded Molly of the fact that very soon, all Sherlock's happiness with her would fizzle out. She hadn't done it. And he needed it.

Oh, lord.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and John turned back to Molly. Molly bit her lip, the words spilling out.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, Dr. Watson - it's just, with everything that's happened today... I couldn't bring myself - I got sidetracked, I really haven't-"

"Woah, woah, woah." John cut her off, his brow furrowed together. "Molly, what's the matter? After what happened today?"

Molly bit her lip again, feeling Sherlock's eyes on her, looking to the floor. John asked again.

"Molly, are you alright?"

Before she could think of an answer, she was cut off by a shout from in the corridor, coming through the still open door.

"Who knew morgues were so _interesting?_"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking to the door. John looked immidiately weary. Molly was confused. It was a woman's voice, that was clear. Molly couldn't deduce anything else - after all, she wasn't Sherlock Holmes. She didn't recognise the voice - she didn't know who it was.

It didn't take long for her to find out, though.

Within the minute, after the sound of high-heels clicking along the corridor, a woman appeared in the doorway of the lab. She wore the highest heels Molly had ever seen; bright red and patent leather, at the end of very tight-fitting jeans. Her legs seemed to go on forever. She was dressed in a smart blazer from the waist up, not buttoned up fully, accenting her figure and revealing a black, low-cut t-shirt underneath. Her red hair tumbled in loose curls past her shoulders and down her back, a side fringe sweeping across her face. Her smile was blinding, obviously framed in bright red lipstick against her milky-pale skin. Her eyes were hazel, surrounded by long, black eyelashes.

Even in the same room as her, Molly felt really quite inadequate. This woman was beautiful - there was no other word for it.

She looked to Sherlock. "Did you find what you were looking for, then?" Her voice was lightly accented - American, Molly thought, but distant, as if she hadn't been home in a while.

Sherlock looked her up and down. "Not yet."

So, they knew each other. Lestrade had said that Sherlock was with a 'friend' - was this her? Molly swallowed, her throat dry.

The woman walked confidently across the lab to stand next to Dr. Watson, towering over him in her heels. She grinned at the man. "Are you alright, Johnnie?"

"Fine, thank you, Irene. And don't call me Johnnie."

Irene just grinned.

It wasn't long before her eyes fell on Molly. Molly felt instantly terrified.

"Well, who's this?" Strangely, the woman's almost patronizing tone didn't infuriate Molly. It was probably the dazzling smile she was now shooting at her.

Sherlock answered for her, like her father. "This is Molly Hooper - the girl I told you about who works at the morgue."

Wait... Sherlock had _talked _about her? Told this.. this _woman _about her?

Molly's confidence came from the warm glow she got inside.

"Hi," she said, holding out her hand for the woman to shake, despite the fact she had no make-up on, her hair was a mess and she was wearing an over-sized lab coat. Irene's smile became softer. She didn't care. Sherlock had mentioned her to another person. He'd thought about her.

"Nice to meet you," she said kindly, shaking Molly's hand, "I'm Irene. Irene Adler." Molly smiled, surprising even herself, momentarily forgetting who she was.

Sherlock didn't take long to remind her.

"So, you were saying? What happened today, Molly?"

The three people looked at her, and Molly returned to being herself. She looked to the floor, realising she'd actually have to tell them. Even Irene - who she didn't even know.

"They... they've stopped my protection." She mumbled. But John heard.

"What? They can't do that! That's... that's... that's-"

"Perfectly fine." Sherlock finished. Molly's eyes shot up.

"What?"

"Well, when he comes back it will finally prove just how inadequate the Metropolitan Police truly are." He strode back to the filing cabinet.

Molly felt his words hit her - the familiar sensation that nobody cared taking over again. Especially Sherlock.

John, however, still looked livid.

"This is outrageous! Do they not know who they're dealing with? He'll come back, of course he'll come back - he's a mental case! A madman! A-"

"Psychopath?" Sherlock offered from the corner of the room, "Yes. He's an actual example of one of those. Please do note the differences-"

"Wait!"

Everybody looked to Irene.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing that concerns you, Irene."

Irene scoffed. "Oh, _please. _I'm here, aren't I? I heard that. I know something's going on. And this poor little chicken looks terribly upset." Irene looked to Molly, with what looked like

genuine sympathy in her eyes, leading Molly to ignore the fact that this strange woman had called her 'chicken'.

John had obviously noticed this too. "Chicken?"

Sherlock ignored him, eyeing Irene carefully. "They've... erm, Molly?"

Molly looked at Irene, straight into her seemingly porcelain face. She was obviously waiting for an answer. Molly had to tell her.

"They've taken away my police protection." She mumbled quietly. Irene gasped melodramatically.

"Police protection? Now, what's a little girl like you doing under police protection?"

Molly's brow furrowed, feeling a spark of anger inside. This woman was _too _patronizing. John opened his mouth to speak, but Molly got there first.

"I'd rather not say, thank you." Her voice was stern.

Both Sherlock and John looked at her in surprise, and even Irene looked taken aback. Immediately, Molly blushed.

"I mean, it's just - you know, it's a bit... raw-"

"I understand, sweetie," Irene said, her smile returning in a different way - no longer patronizing, but genuine, "that's okay, if you don't want to talk about it."

Molly looked to the floor, far too embarrassed over her outburst. She was sure that the others were having some kind of silent conversation over her head. It was John who finally broke it.

"So, Molly, you were saying? About the report?"

Molly looked at him, too scared to look at Sherlock. "I haven't done it." She said quietly, "I just... never got around to it. I'm really sorry."

There was a pause, before Molly could practically feel Sherlock grinning at the back of her head.

"Fantastic!"

John's brow furrowed. "Sorry?"

"Oh, Dr. Watson!" Sherlock went on, still grinning, "Don't you see? She hasn't done the autopsy!"

John looked to Molly for some kind of answer. She shrugged as he turned back to Sherlock. "Yeah... I got that bit, Sherlock-"

"Oh, John! Don't you get it! We can do it ourselves!"

Sherlock looked ecstatic, seemingly waiting for a similar excited outburst from John. John, however, didn't look so overjoyed. Molly couldn't help but giggle, but Sherlock was too busy smiling like a madman to notice. He wheeled around dramatically, his coat swishing like a wizard's cloak, and began to march towards the door.

"Onwards, Watson!" he shouted over his shoulder, "The game is afoot!"


	5. Chapter 4

**Hello again, and Happy New Year! Here's Chapter Four.  
Thanks again to my Beta, and to all of my reviewers - I love the way you're guessing what's going to happen next!  
Anyway, must dash. :)**

Chapter Four.

John looked to Molly. "Are you going to help me out of this?"

Molly smiled. "Nope. Sorry, Dr. Watson, but you can't argue with him when 'the game is afoot'."

John's face turned sarcastic. Molly giggled.

"Coming, Irene?" he asked over his shoulder as he limped towards the door.

"No, I don't think so."

John and Molly both looked at the woman incredulously. Irene grinned, blinding them all once more.

"I mean, I know I said morgues were interesting, but really - they're not _that _interesting. Plus, I never have liked dead bodies, too... ugh. And, to top it all off, I actually have somebody new and interesting to talk to now, who isn't a boy living out their childhood detective dreams."

Molly blushed, realising that she meant her. Irene smiled at her. John, on the other hand, looked insulted.

"I am not living out my 'childhood detective dream'." he insisted to Irene's smile, "I never had a dream to be a detective when I was a child. I don't have a dream to be a detective now-"

"So why do you stay with him, John?"

That silenced him. Irene giggled - her laugh was musical and dainty. John scoffed.

"Fine. I'll leave you here. Sorry Molly. Jesus Christ, Adler, you're just as bad as him sometimes."

And with that, he limped away. Molly honestly had no idea what to say.

"So..."

"Got a bit of a soft spot for our Sherlock, have we?"

Molly wheeled around to face the odd woman sitting on the counter, currently smirking in a way that made Molly blush, her eyes glittering mischievously. Molly cleared her throat. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, I can see the attraction and all - I have known him for a while-"

"Yes," Molly interrupted, "How long _have _you known Sherlock?"

Irene smiled again. "Changing the subject? Alright, if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. Plus, I know I'm right." The woman leaped off the desk and began pacing, continuing to talk before Molly could even think of a witty response. "I've known Sherlock for years, now - eight, at least. Of course, we don't see each other often. I haven't seen him since... well, yes.  
In about two years, actually_._"

"How did you meet?"

Irene smirked at Molly over her shoulder, flicking her long red curls from her face. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Molly felt her brow furrow slightly. Irene sighed.

"Our pasts are intertwined, put it that way," she said, "I've known him at his worst and his best, and he's helped me out along the way. How did you meet?"

Molly shifted uncomfortably. "Erm... at the morgue..."

"Yes, he told me all about you, you know. You did something clever or something... said you were always ready to help."

Molly inadvertently blushed again. She couldn't help it - next to Irene she felt like a small child. She was so beautiful, so mysterious, and she'd known Sherlock for so long... Molly felt unworthy, inadequate. But, still, the thought of Sherlock actually mentioning _her,_ simple little Molly Hooper, to someone like Irene... it was incomprehendable. It made her glow on the inside and blush on the outside.

Irene giggled.

"Oh, Molly. You are cute, you know. And I think I'm going to like you."

Molly looked up and tried to smile. Irene smiled back. "Oh, yes. We're going to have lots of fun." She began pacing again. "Tell me, Molly, why haven't you made a move on Sherlock yet?"

Molly swallowed. "He's not interested." She said, quietly, her warm glow fizzling out.

Irene cocked her head to one side. "What makes you so sure?"

Molly scoffed at Irene's expression. "I thought you knew Sherlock?" she asked, a little incredulously. When Irene didn't speak, Molly continued. "He doesn't _feel _like normal people do, Irene. He's more of a robot than a man."

She walked over to the bench she'd been working at before Sherlock and John had arrived, starting to put her work away - it was clear now, with Irene in the room, she wasn't going to get much done. She only turned back around at the sound of Irene's low laugh as she stopped pacing.

"Oh, Molly. He's a man alright. Don't doubt that." Irene was smirking.

Molly's eyes nearly fell out of her head, her voice coming out about three octaves too high. "Excuse me?"

"Anyway," Irene dismissed, as if the comment had never been said, "you must be busy. I should let you get to your work."

Molly was too stunned to say anything. Irene carried on as she started to walk towards the door.

"I'd like to meet up, though - I'm not from around here, see, don't have many friends. It's nice to have another woman to talk to. What time do you finish?" She spun around, leaning on the doorframe. Molly still couldn't speak.

"I... erm..." she coughed. Irene looked at Molly, one eyebrow raised, before quickly spinning around to march down the corridor.

"It's alright, I'll find out. See you after work, Molly!"

Molly heard the door click behind her before any of the last conversation registered in her brain. She shook her head rapidly to try and shake herself into consciousness.

The first thing she realised was that she'd just agreed to meet Irene after work. Molly cursed. She didn't know this woman, she didn't particularly like this woman - she was nosey, she was loud, she was far too beautiful to be socially acceptable.

Plus, she'd had a relationship with Sherlock. At least, that was what she'd implied. That was the second thing to register in Molly's head.

The most shocking thing, perhaps, about this revelation, was that Sherlock had been in a relationship _at all._ As she'd said, Molly didn't think Sherlock was even capable of human emotions; he was a robot, she'd always known that. That was what made her constant rejection from him bearable.

Now, though, she knew.

She just wasn't good enough for him. If she was more beautiful, more interesting, more outgoing like Irene, then maybe he'd notice her. But not as Molly. She wanted to hit something.

Preferably Irene.

And now she had to go 'out' after work with her. She didn't know what that meant. It could be anything, from an old flame of Sherlock's.

The words still sounded odd in her head. Sherlock's _ex_.

Another downside to this whole arrangement was the fact that Irene knew of Molly's - how had she put it? - _soft spot _for Sherlock Holmes. So, the girl who was head-over-heels in unrequited love with the enigmatic detective was going to have to pretend to be friends with the enigmatic detective's ex-girlfriend - possibly his _only _ex-girlfriend. But really, Molly just didn't know any more.

She thought about finding a way out of it, cancelling on Irene, but decided against it. If the woman was hanging around Sherlock, maybe even staying with him, seeing as she wasn't from England, then there was no doubt she'd be back. Plus, Molly didn't want to upset Sherlock.

There was nothing else for it. She was just going to have to grin and bear it.

* * *

Despite her hopes, Irene Adler was waiting for Molly right outside the morgue at half past five, grinning and waving. Molly smiled nervously and waved a little.

They walked and talked - well, Irene talked, about nothing in particular, whilst Molly contemplated the situation she'd found herself in - until they ended up in a quiet coffee shop a couple  
of streets away. Molly breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her.

At least they weren't clubbing, or anything.

"Are you alright, Molly?"

Molly slid into the chair at the table Irene had chosen, picking up the menu and scanning it briefly. "Yeah," she said, absentmindedly, "I'm fine."

Irene let out a low hum. Molly looked up. "What?"

Irene raised one eyebrow. "You haven't said a thing since we left the morgue. I mean, I get it, you're quiet, that's what makes you seem so nice - but really, Molly, what's wrong?"

Molly tried to smile. "Nothing." She turned her attention back to the menu, feeling Irene's eyes on her. Her gaze was almost as calculating as Sherlock - it had that same intensity, as if she wasn't just looking at Molly, she was looking _through _Molly, and could see so much more besides what was in front of her.

Trying her best not to act like she'd noticed, Molly called over the waitress and ordered a coffee. Irene dismissed the girl with a wave of her perfectly-manicured hand. Molly smiled.

"So..."

"I'm not seeing Sherlock, you know."

Molly was a little taken aback by the statement. "I didn't say-"

"No, I know," replied Irene, leaning back in her chair, "but you were thinking it. Is that what's wrong?"  
_  
Yes, _Molly thought, _how can I ever compete with you?_ But instead, she said "Nothing's wrong, Irene. Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

"We did have a relationship, once," Irene admitted, ignoring Molly's question completely. The assurance of the fact that Irene and Sherlock _had _shared a relationship at some point felt like a stab to the stomach, but Molly tried not to flinch as Irene continued, "but that's _so _over now. I haven't... I mean, _we _haven't... for a very long time now."

The waitress returned with Molly's coffee. She paid the girl, who turned and made her way back to the counter. Molly took a sip from the cup as she contemplated Irene's words.

"Is it jealousy?"

Molly nearly choked. "Ex-excuse me?" she coughed out. Irene looked deadly serious.

"Why you suddenly decided you didn't like me. My friendship with Sherlock is purely platonic, nowadays, Molly - just because I'm staying with him-"

"So you _are _staying with him?" Molly cut in, without thinking. Irene paused.

"So you _are _jealous."

Molly felt a blush rise in her cheeks. She quickly fixed her attention on her coffee and began stirring in some sugar. "I didn't say that," she said quietly.

"You didn't have to," Irene said softly, but Molly didn't meet her eyes, "It's alright, Molly. I know you like him. And Sherlock and I... we're just friends, honest."

Molly kept stirring. Irene sighed.

"Don't let this stop our friendship, Molly. He's an old flame - and as much as I don't like to admit it, there's been a few of them."

Molly looked up. _Friendship?_

This woman actually wanted to be her... friend?

"Molly?"

"I..." she had to make sure, "Friendship?"

Irene's brow furrowed as she looked at Molly as if she'd just asked the most obvious question in the world. "Of course," she said, "I need a girl friend whilst I'm here. Otherwise it'd just get boring - nobody but Holmes and Watson for company? Oh, what a party."

Molly couldn't help but smile. Maybe Irene wasn't as bad as she'd first thought... and plus, she wasn't in a relationship with Sherlock. She wasn't going to steal him away. Molly bit her lip, convincing herself she was doing the right thing. She hadn't had a proper friend since before Jim... and here was someone who wasn't going to judge her for it, someone who didn't even know anything about Jim...

"So, where are you actually from then, Irene?"

The woman looked up and smiled. Molly smiled back, ready for some actual conversation for the first time in months.

* * *

"... and so every time I come back to London, Sherlock lets me stay with him. Reluctantly, sometimes, but he always does." Irene paused, before adding, "Purely platonic, of course."

Molly smiled. She'd actually been enjoying herself, hearing about Irene's life - she was from America originally, but she travelled a lot. Molly wasn't sure what her job actually _was_, though - every time she tried to bring it up, Irene changed the subject. She didn't particularly mind, though - she had a friend, for the first time in months.

"Listen, Molly," she said, leaning back in her chair, "about Sherlock..."

Oh, no. They'd managed to stay off the subject for so long...

"I know him, Molly. Better than most people... better than his own brother, I'd wager."

Molly looked up, trying to look nonchalant. "What's your point?"

A sly smile spread across Irene's face. "I could... well, I don't know - help you?"

Molly's eyebrows pulled together. "Help me?"

"Oh, _please. _You need to make a move on this guy before somebody else does, Molly."

Molly shook her head frantically and picked up her coffee, suddenly understanding. "No... no, I don't think so, Irene. Can we change the subject, please?"

"Molly!"

Irene's sudden outburst almost made Molly drop her cup. The woman sat opposite her, an exasperated expression on her face. Molly didn't move.

Irene ran her fingers through her hair. "Fine. Fine then. Don't let me help you win the man of your dreams."

Rather than feeling sorry for herself, Molly was just amused, shaking her head. "He's not interested, Irene. I can promise you that."

She raised her eyebrow. "You don't know until you try."

Molly bit her lip. Was this woman being serious?

"Molly, why wouldn't he like you? You're pretty, intelligent, and _so _sweet-"

"You've only known me a few hours," Molly interrupted with a smile. Irene paused for a beat.

"So? That's all it takes. I can tell whether someone's pretty or not from looking at them for a second, Molly. It's not hard."

Molly shook her head again, sipping more coffee. As she put the cup back in the saucer, Irene looked hopeful.

"So, what do you say? Will you let me help?"

Molly looked at the other woman's expression and couldn't help but smile. "It won't work, Irene. Honest. Thanks, though... it's nice to meet someone who's willing."

Finally, the other woman looked defeated. "Oh. Alright."

"We can still be friends, though, can't we?" The question was out of Molly's mouth before she could think about it. But it did make sense - she shouldn't have been so quick to judge Irene that morning. Turned out she was interesting, funny, kind and actually willing to _help _Molly - something that not many people did. She was another woman who was willing to be Molly's friend, and just hanging around with her made Molly feel better about herself instantly, in a complete contrast to that morning. Because yes, Irene was unfairly beautiful, but she was also confident, and that confidence seemed to radiate from her. Once Molly had got over the milestone of Irene being an ex-girlfriend of Sherlock, she'd actually gotten to quite like the woman.

Irene grinned. "Obviously."

Molly looked at her watch, and gasped. "Oh my god, look at the time! I haven't had anything to eat since half seven this morning-"

"Want to go and get something?"

Molly smiled, before draining her coffee cup and gathering her bag and coat. "No, thanks, Irene. I should really be getting back - I've got to feed Charlie-"

"Charlie?"

Molly blushed. "My cat."

Irene's face lit up. "You've got a cat!"

Molly nodded. Irene grinned. "Aww, I love cats. I'll have to come and meet him some time."

"Yeah," Molly agreed pulling on her coat, "Anyway, thanks for today, Irene, it's really been lovely-"

Irene stood up, and interrupted with a "No, thank _you_. I would have been bored stiff back at that flat. Nice to meet you, Molly." She held out her hand for Molly to shake. Molly took it.

"I'll see you around, yeah?"

Irene nodded. "Definitely."

And with a smile, Molly turned and left, feeling happier than she had in a while.


	6. Chapter 5

**Hello again :) Sorry, I'm back at school now, so updates won't be quite as quick. They shouldn't take long now though, now that it's getting exciting :')  
Also, I realise this chapter is stupidly long, but I wrote it twice after realising I'd missed something important out.  
Which brings me to my next point - thanks again to Google Eleanor, especially seeing as she had to Beta this one twice xD  
Also, big thankyou to my reviewers! You make me too happy :'D**

**Onwards! :')**

Chapter Five.

Whilst the thought of spending a lot more time in the company of Irene Adler scared Molly a little, it also excited her. Irene was everything that she wanted to be - enigmatic, confident, beautiful, demanding of the attention of everyone around her.

Molly could only wish that she could be like that one day.

They kept meeting, almost every day - in coffee shops and restaurants, at the morgue whilst Sherlock worked on the Baker case - something which turned out to be a lot more serious and intricate than Molly had first anticipated. Since Eloise, another body had been brought in - Samuel Baker, the elder brother of the family, aged 27. Despite the obvious disturbing nature of the crime and the tragedy of an entire family being murdered, Molly found herself with a strange bubbling happiness in her stomach each time another body was brought in. Because everytime a body came in, Sherlock followed like a dog. And if that wasn't good enough, Irene would too.

Molly was more than grateful for her new found friend; not only did she surprisingly enjoy being in Irene's company, but her presence seemed to ward off any thoughts of her distinct lack of police protection. Obviously, she didn't tell Irene, though.

There was one problem, however. One subject that Irene just wouldn't let lie.

Molly tried to tell her that she _had _tried to make a move on Sherlock a while ago, and that he just wasn't interested, but she wasn't having any of it. When they were together, the conversation always,_always _turned to Sherlock and Molly's 'affection' for him, as Irene called it. She'd try and convince Molly that with a little help, Sherlock would be putty in her hand, but Molly didn't believe her. Then, Irene would tell her some story from her past about Sherlock - or, things about Sherlock in general. How he talked in his sleep and occasionally sleepwalked, how his relationship with his brother Mycroft wasn't all hatred and sibling rivalry, and how once you got past the anti-social shell, he was actually a nice man.

Irene would drop subtle hints, too, whilst Sherlock was working. Hints subtle enough for Molly to notice clearly - especially when they were outlined with Irene's trademark wink - but obscure and casual enough for John and Sherlock to not pick up on properly. Things like _'Oh, Sherlock, have you seen Molly's new haircut?' _or _'I don't think you'd have been able to crack this case without Molly's quick thinking, do you, Sherlock?'_

Obviously, Sherlock remained completely oblivious, but it was entertaining for Molly if nothing else.

Overall, though, Molly didn't mind talking about Sherlock - as much as she knew nothing was ever going to happen between them, hearing about him was always nice. Plus, it veered Irene off the subject Molly definitely didn't want to talk about.

At least, for a while.

It was a week later, when Irene met Molly after work, as per usual, and they were sitting in the same coffee shop they'd first became friends in, that Irene brought up the fact that Molly had ever been under police protection. Molly felt her comfort melt away, and shifted nervously in her seat.

"It doesn't matter why, Irene. It's okay. It's over now."

Irene looked at Molly in that way she seemed to be so good at - like she could work out everything about Molly just by seeing her. She raised one eyebrow, an expression which read _I don't believe you._ Molly tried to change the subject.

"So, how's Sherlock's latest experiment going?"

"Don't change the subject Molly. You can't run from this."

Molly's eyes snapped back to Irene's as an electric shiver jolted down her spine.  
_  
You can't run from me forever, Molly._

"I... I just don't - I don't feel... I don't want to talk about it." She stuttered, Jim's face and voice began to swim in her head for the first time in a week.

Irene reached over and put her hand over Molly's. "It's okay, Molly. Maybe... maybe if you talked about it, it would help? I mean, you're obviously still upset about it, whatever it is..."

Molly stared at Irene's hand. The woman had this way of talking, a way of bringing something out of you, even if you didn't want it to be shown. Her words were like a spell - Molly _had _to tell her.

"I- I had a boyfriend." she began, pulling her hand from under Irene's and staring at it in her lap. "He was... he wasn't who I thought he was."

Irene leaned her head on her hands. "What do you mean?"

Molly glanced up to meet her eyes. "He... he did some bad things."

"He was a murderer?"

Molly didn't look up this time, she just nodded. Then, rethinking, she mumbled her answer.

"No, actually. He was worse."

Irene tilted her head. "Worse?"

Molly bit her lip. "Can we stop talking about this now?"

Irene pressed on. "What's worse than murder, Molly?"

She looked up at Irene, straight into her eyes. "He is. He's worse than murder."

"Who is?"

Molly looked at her incredulously. "My ex, Irene! Obviously-"

"Yes, I know that. What was his name, Molly?"

Molly shook her head, the familiar feeling of swirling dread rising in her stomach. "I can't," she said quietly, "I can't say it. He's out there, Irene. He's watching. And waiting. He'll come back for me, I know it-"

"Hey!" Irene cut her off as Molly's fears became all one word, her panic spilling into the speed of her voice, "Hey. Don't worry, he won't hurt you. Not with Sherlock around - he's the best in the business. No self-respecting criminal would come near him."

Molly let out a short, dry, humourless laugh. "No, Irene. He's more likely to come near me _with _Sherlock around. It's Sherlock that he wants."

That seemed to silence Irene, her eyebrows pulling together. Eventually, after a tangible silence, she settled on one word.

"What?"

Molly chose her words carefully. "Did Sherlock tell you about the explosion?"

Irene shook her head. Molly continued. "Well, he was in an explosion. Him and John - that's why John walks with a stick. And my ex... he was behind it."

"He was after Sherlock." It was a statement, not a question. The tone in Irene's voice was deadening, the look in her eyes far off, as if trying to place together a dream. She blinked slowly and looked to the table. Without looking up, her voice still cold, she spoke quietly.

"What was his name?"

"I-"

"Molly, what was his name?" She looked up at Molly through her eyelashes, something burning in the hazel that Molly didn't want to understand. She was a little taken aback, but replied almost instantly.

"Moriarty," she whispered, her throat dry as if the word would burn her tongue, "James Moriarty."

Irene looked ready to collapse. All colour drained from her face and for the first time since Molly had met her, her eyes showed an emotion other than cheeky confidence or happiness. No, they were glazed with something that looked close to fear - an expression more befitting of Molly herself, rather than Irene.

"Irene?" Molly stuttered, "Irene, are you - are you alright?"

Irene didn't reply for a good few minutes, her eyes looking down away from Molly. Still, Molly could see when she closed them, her long lashes brushing against her cheek as her expression contorted. Molly looked at her, unsure what to do.

Suddenly, Irene looked up, flicking her hair behind her shoulder as if nothing had ever happened. "I'm fine." she said, finishing with a smile - but it lacked it's usual confidence and shine, as she tried to convince both Molly and herself, "I'm fine."

"I don't-"

"So, no wonder you're scared about making a move on Sherlock, hmm?" Irene began stirring her coffee, which must have been cold by now.

"Irene-"

"After a man like that - Moriarty, did you say? Sounds a bit mental, if you ask me. No wonder you're afraid."

There was a pause. "Do you know him, Irene?"

"Who, Sherlock? Of course, Molly, I'm staying with him - we've had this conversation, remember?" Irene answered absentmindedly, eyes still on her cup.

"No... my ex, Jim-"

"Oh, him? No. Never heard of him."

"But you-"

"Never heard of him." Irene cut in forcefully, her voice cold and fierce. She stopped stirring and looked at Molly, fire in her eyes, and Molly had no choice but to stop talking. She watched  
Irene carefully as her expression returned to calm before she continued.

"So, anyway, I think that maybe all you need is a little... _push_."

Molly saw where she was going immediately. "Irene, we've been through this-"

"No, Molly, hear me out." She said, her voice back to normal now, "I understand why you're afraid of this, but not all men are like your ex. I don't think anyone else would be like him - least of all Sherlock."

"They're more alike than you'd think." Molly mumbled. Irene knocked her cup over.

"They are _nothing _like one another." She almost growled. Molly gulped.

"Oh-okay."

She decided not to press the issue any further as a waiter came bustling over to clean up the spillage. He wiped it all up, Irene gushing apologies at him as he lifted up the cup and turned away. When he shot one last look at her, she gave him a flirtatious wink that made the boy blush to his ears.

How could she snap from so obviously angry and uncomfortable to so laid-back and confident? The two visible sides of Irene Adler seemed to live in unison, coexisting in her head like Jekyll and Hyde - say too much, and she'd snap. And when she snapped, it would be a lie to say that Molly hadn't been scared. Her whole persona had changed, from the comfortable friend Molly knew and liked, to a cold, fierce stranger with an explosive temper.

So, when Irene sat in silence for a moment, Molly kept quiet.

"I propose we go out." she finally said, grinning at Molly, "Either tonight or tomorrow. Are you up for it?"

Molly narrowed her eyes. "Irene, it's Thursday today, I've got work tomorrow, and-"

"Okay," she interrupted, "tomorrow then."

Molly opened and closed her mouth like a fish, looking for suitable words. How was this woman pretending that nothing had happened? "I don't really do that kind of thing, Irene. I don't really... _go out._"

Irene rolled her eyes. "Then isn't it about time that you did?"

Molly shook her head. Irene's lip curled a little.

"Molly, listen. You need to stop hiding. You're a woman, not a child. Stop being such a little girl, will you?"

Molly didn't know what to say to that, so she kept silent, like a child in a headmistress' office. Irene leant back and sighed in frustration. Molly could practically feel the annoyance radiating from the woman.

She couldn't figure out what she'd done to make Irene snap so quickly.

"You'll come around to Baker Street tomorrow night at seven - I'm presuming you know which number? Get dolled up, Molly, let your hair down. Let Sherlock see exactly what you're made of. He likes girls who know who they are, Molly, girls who take risks. People who aren't afraid of power, who'll climb over people to get to the top of the ladder and won't let anyone get in their way. Isn't that what you want to be like, Molly? More like me?"

Irene's eyes sparkled. Molly's grew wide.  
_  
How did she know that?_

Irene smirked.

"Oh, please, Molly. I know you do. Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one who sees more than he lets on."

Molly was dumbstruck. "But... you think that..."

Irene's tone was clipped and almost mocking.

"If you come around dressed like a _proper _woman for once that Sherlock might actually take notice of you? Probably. I'll see you tomorrow at seven."

And with that, she got up and stormed out.

* * *

The way that Irene had reacted to Jim's name had made Molly feel more than uncomfortable. Plus, rather than 'helping her' with it, the conversation about Jim had done nothing for Molly but remind her of him and her fear.

All in all, it wasn't a good day.

She returned from her lunch break a little shaken up, but putting on her brave-face mask for the people on reception. She looked forward to the empty loneliness of her lab and trying to figure out a way of getting out of Irene's plan. That way, she couldn't think either about Jim or Irene's dual nature.

However, upon arriving at her lab, Molly sighed in exasperation. There were people in there, four people - and not just any four people, either.

Sherlock was the first one she noticed, leaning over a microscope and sliding the slide around underneath it, his curls falling around his face and obscuring his eyes. He was dressed in a sharp suit, lacking a tie as always, pale blue shirt open at his neck, his long black coat and trademark scarf slung over the stool next to him.

John was the first to notice Molly - he smiled when she came in, biting his lip as he tried to think of an explanation of why they were there. He leant on the counter rather than his stick, which was standing against the wall a little way away from him.

"Hi Molly," he said, a nervous laugh behind his words, "sorry about this - he thinks he's found something-"

"Correction, Dr. Watson," a voice corrected from the microscope, although the man didn't move, "I _know _I've found something."

John merely waited for Sherlock to finish before continuing, "Sherlock found something, and apparently his stuff at home wasn't nearly good enough to do this investigating on-"

"Quite obviously," Sherlock drawled, now standing to his full height and looking at John as if he were a particularly stupid child, "these are _medical microscopes._" He stressed the words like everybody should know the importance of them. A snort came from the other end of the room.

Molly hadn't met the man in the suit and tie at the other end of the lab before, but she recognised him immediately. Shorter than his brother, and not nearly as thin or lanky, Mycroft  
Holmes looked impatient, umbrella swung over his crossed arms. He stared at the final occupant of the room with greyer eyes than Sherlock, never as icy or calculating, but still obviously more intelligent than the common man.

"How long is this going to take, Lestrade?"

Lestrade looked up from the filing cabinet he was filtering through in the corner and looked at Mycroft with an expression that told Molly this definitely wasn't the first time he'd asked.

"I'm looking, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft hummed, before turning to Molly. Molly froze.

"You must be Molly," his voice was smooth and full of authority, "the girl whose lab my brother has so kindly stolen for an afternoon?"

Molly nodded. So did Mycroft.

"Yes. He does have a tendency to get himself into places where he's not wanted. Just kick him out - that's what I always did."

Sherlock, who had returned to pouring over his experiment, stood and turned so quickly he almost knocked his precious microscope over.

"You just can't let things go, can you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked indifferent. "Are you saying that had your four-year-old self _not _walked into my bedroom, my first-edition copy of Wordsworth would _not _have been ruined?"

Sherlock just turned back around to his microscope, grumbling to himself. John coughed to hide his laughter. Lestrade turned back to his filing cabinet. Molly was just plain confused. She didn't know what to do.

She settled on enquiring as to what Lestrade was doing. He sighed.

"Looking for the most recent Baker case autopsy report." he said, still flicking through, "Turns out the elder brother was one of Mycroft's agents."

"Oh."

Molly knew that Mycroft worked for the government - something to do with the secret service. Sherlock didn't keep it a secret; once you knew that Mycroft actually existed, he'd be more than happy to tell you about him, in his own sarcastic, mildly insulting way, never giving any specifics. Of course, first, you had to figure out that Sherlock actually had a brother.

Molly remembered the first time Lestrade had met Mycroft. The man had come in, masquerading as a government inspector, investigating their use of private detectives. Lestrade had nearly fainted when he found out that he was in fact Sherlock's brother, and the only reason he'd come was to make sure Sherlock was behaving because one of his surveillance cameras had gone down.

Molly couldn't pretend she'd ever understand the Holmes brothers.

Another thing she couldn't pretend she hadn't noticed was the absence of Irene. The distinct lack of her cheeky smile and sunny attitude and even the occasional 'Sherlock, I'm bored as hell, amuse me' left a hole in the room that hadn't been empty for the past week, and Molly felt responsible.

"Sherlock, where's Irene?"

Sherlock hummed, and reached out blindly, hitting John on the arm. John jumped and complained, but understood the message nonetheless.

"She's at home," John answered for him. Sherlock snorted. John rolled his eyes, "Well if that's not good enough you can answer yourself."

Sherlock stood up again, brushing his suit jacket down. "She's _sulking._" he stressed, "God only knows why."

Molly felt her stomach drop. Sulking? It must have been her fault. It must have been.

Mycroft's groan interrupted Molly's thoughts. "That insufferable Adler woman isn't staying with you again, is she?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "For over a week. I thought you'd know by now, Mycroft."

Mycroft had nothing to say to that. Molly had nothing to say either, her guilt building up inside of her until she came to a decision.

She wouldn't find a way out of her night out with Irene - she'd go, and she'd try to enjoy it. If only to make it up to her friend.


	7. Chapter 6

**ANGSTT. Not gonna lie, this chapter's full of it :) But get to the end - the last line is probably my favourite so far! :D  
Ooooh, excitement over the upcoming chapters. Into the actual story now guys! I'm hoping you still can't see where this is goiing :)  
Big thanks to my Beta, Google Eleanor :) And also to all of my reviewers - loove you :D  
Also, thanks to you, for reading :D Don't forget to review! You'll make my day x)  
Onwards!**

Chapter Six

Molly was nervous.  
_  
Really _nervous.

Not the good kind of nervous like getting exam results or waiting for something you're excited for, nor the comfortable butterflies that seemed to constantly flutter in her stomach whenever Sherlock was around.

No, right now, Molly just felt sick. She wanted to throw up with the nerves and her legs felt like they couldn't support her as she walked to her front door. Add to that the five-inch heels she'd thought it would be a good idea to wear upon seeing them in the wardrobe, and Molly actually physically could not walk in a straight line.

She was still going, though. She'd promised herself she would.

So, having made this decision, she'd come to the conclusion that if she was going to do this, she was going to do it properly. She'd gone out and bought an actual dress - one-shouldered, bright purple, body-hugging and much, _much _shorter than anything Molly would ordinarily deem socially acceptable. But tonight seemed like a night for not being socially acceptable - with her hair done like some over-the-top celebrity and her eye make-up much darker than usual, she didn't look anything like the woman whose 'look' she was copying from the magazine. But - even if she said so herself - she didn't look half bad.

Not nearly as glamorous as Irene, of course. Although she might of been just as tall with her ridiculous heels on.

She called a cab as soon as she left her building, climbing in the back seat and telling him where she wanted to go. Normally, she could have walked there, but in those shoes Molly didn't fancy her chances of survival.

She didn't know what she was expecting from tonight - whether Irene was right, and Sherlock _would _notice her... Molly smiled to herself at the thought, as much as she tried to stop herself.

Was it so wrong to admit to herself that there might be a chance? To let herself believe that, even if only for a second, the man who'd owned her heart for so long without knowing might actually notice her for once? After all, Irene was a very intelligent woman - was it so wrong to trust her? To trust that she was right?

Then, Molly's nerves turned into the common butterflies she felt in the presence of Sherlock as the cab driver turned into Baker Street. By this time, Molly couldn't keep the grin off her face.  
She saw the driver smirk in his mirror.

"What's made you so happy, Miss?"

Molly blushed, but her smile stayed put. "Oh, nothing," she replied, turning to look out of the window as they approached 221B, "just... excited, is all. I've got a good feeling about tonight."

The car stopped outside the house, and Molly tentatively got out of the car. She paid the driver through his window, and just before he left, he grinned at her.

"Good luck, Miss. I hope it all works out for you."

Molly smiled back, feeling the most hopeful she'd been in a while. "Thanks," she said, "have a good night."

She turned to face the door and took a deep breath as the taxi drove away. She looked up at the shiny black door like a little girl - it looked far too intimidating for a door. But, with her good mood carrying her high above her worries, she walked up to the door carefully and knocked three times.

Her heart was in her throat as she patted her hair subconsciously, smoothing her dress down as she heard someone on the other side of the door. Molly took a deep breath once more, trying to calm her racing heartbeat, when the door swung open.

Of course, it wasn't Sherlock on the other side. Or Irene. It wasn't even John. Molly's smile faltered a little as the old woman in the doorway smiled kindly up at her.

"Can I help you, dear?"

"Erm..." she wasn't quite sure what to do, "is... is Irene there?"

The woman's face fell into an expression of understanding. "Oh, of course dear, you must be Molly - Irene told me you'd be coming. They're upstairs, if you just want to go up."

She beckoned Molly into the hallway and Molly smiled gratefully. Then, turning to face the stairs leading to another door, the woman shouted at a volume that seemed unnaturally loud for a woman of her age - however old that was.

"Sherlock!" she shouted, "It's for you!"

Then, as if nothing had happened, the woman turned back to Molly and gave her a sweet smile. "Go right on up, dear. They'll be out in a second."

Smiling nervously at who she guessed was Sherlock's landlady, Molly nodded and looked up the staircase. The dark stairs looked foreboding, and Molly glanced sideways to see that the woman was no longer there.

She made her way to the first stair, wondering how in the name of God she was meant to climb all of these stairs with her shoes on.

Oh, well. She had to try.

The door at the top of the staircase opened before she reached the landing - she was still balancing herself against the walls in an attempt to stay upright, at least three steps from the top, when she heard it click open. She inwardly cursed - Sherlock wasn't meant to see her like this, fumbling and unsteady! She was meant to be a swan, a ladylike, graceful-

"Blimey, Molly."

The man's voice from the doorway interrupted Molly's thoughts, and she looked up, her fears melting a little. It wasn't Sherlock in the doorway, it was John Watson, looking at her with a mouth open like a fish, as if he literally couldn't believe what he was seeing. Molly blushed to her ears as she reached the door.

"Hi, John." In her heels, she was at least two inches taller than him. He looked up to meet her eyes.

"_Blimey_, Molly."

She frowned. "What's the matter?"

John coughed. "N-nothing!" he stuttered, smiling and laughing nervously, "It's just that you look - I mean you look ... wow."

Molly blushed again, giggling lightly. "Erm... thanks."

John coughed again, and Molly could have sworn she saw a pink blush rise in his cheeks, too. "Anyway - Erm - Irene... she'll be down - come in."

He smiled and led her inside. Molly's nerves had melted away completely - she was floating on air.

She'd made John Watson blush and stutter like a teenage boy! She smiled at him in what she hoped was the same stunning way Irene had the knack for, and felt, for the first time in her  
life, that Sherlock would _definitely _notice her tonight. For the first time in her life, Molly felt like a woman. She felt gorgeous.

And there he was.

Long legs sprawled across the sofa, suit jacket slung over the arm of the chair, actually wearing a tie for once, even if it was loose at the top, Sherlock Holmes lay in his living room staring blankly at the television screen. When he saw Molly, he did a double take.

Molly could have screamed with happiness as he stood up, brushing his trousers down and looking Molly up and down as if she were one of his experiments. She put her hand on her hip and fluttered her eyelashes, trying not to blush.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Molly?"

Molly giggled. "That's me."

He looked straight into her face now, advancing towards her and narrowing his eyes, head cocked to one side. Within a minute, he was inches from her, and Molly could feel his body heat radiating off him. She had to look away as he stared straight into her face, unable to bear the intensity of his icy eyes so close.

"You look... different."

This close to him, Molly could hear the beginnings of his voice rumbling in his throat and chest, feel his warm breath on her cheek. She couldn't help but blush, now. At least she wasn't collapsing - her legs felt like they'd disappeared.

"Th-thanks." She said quietly, daring to look him in the eyes. They truly were amazing close up; the brightest, coldest blue, never lying still, always analysing, calculating. He was still scrutinizing her, which made Molly blush more. This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? This definitely counted as 'noticing her'. The butterflies in her stomach returned and she felt like she was glowing, her confidence returning as she smiled bashfully up at Sherlock in what she hoped was a cute way.

"Hmm." He let out a low hum, before turning away and striding back towards the sofa. Molly let out the breath she'd been holding since he stood up and he turned, looking over his shoulder. He hummed again and then turned back to the television, not bothering to sit down.

"Irene will be down shortly," he said, after a pause, when Molly heard John re-entering the room behind her.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, Molly heard the clicking of high-heels coming down the stairs. She turned to face them, waiting nervously for her first sight of Irene since they'd parted on bad terms the previous day. She was sure that everything would be fine, though. Irene was her friend, after all - she was probably just having a bad day. _Friends forgive each other, _  
Molly reassured herself, ignoring the fact that she still technically didn't know what she'd done.

Irene came into view wearing a smile that only she could pull off. Even Molly felt the breath knocked out of her at the sight of her, never mind the two men in the room. She looked like a goddess - even taller than usual in high, glittery black heels, her bare legs seeming to go on forever. Her dress was black - hugging at the top, but with a flowing skirt that fell to just above her knee. She wore no jewellery - her porcelain skin contrasted with the black, her low-cut dress accentuating all the right places. Her long red hair cascaded well past her shoulders and her eyelashes seemed to go on forever, jet black and fluttery. Her grin was framed with her usual bright red lipstick, and she stood at the bottom of the staircase as if she owned the entire world. How a woman could look both elegant and sexy all in one outfit, Molly could never understand.

She suddenly felt quite inadequate.

She went to say hello to Irene, but before the words came out of her mouth, the other woman strode straight to Sherlock, ignoring Molly completely. Molly's brow furrowed.

Irene was smiling, looking up at Sherlock through her eyelashes, who was somehow still taller than her even in her skyscraper heels. Sherlock was looking back at her, and his expression made Molly's stomach drop.

He was smiling - the famous, rare, crooked smile of Sherlock Holmes, his eyes glittering from all the way across the room. He didn't look at Irene as he had looked at Molly, like an experiment gone wrong, but rather as a man should look at a woman. He couldn't keep his eyes off her.

"So," Irene said quietly, her voice smooth, "how do I look?"

She giggled musically, and Sherlock laughed too - more of a low, raspy chuckle than a laugh. Molly felt sick.

He reached up with one hand to Irene's face, jutting his chin out as he gently pushed a curl from out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. Irene smiled again, and so did Sherlock, never taking his eyes from her.

Molly stayed silent, her stomach churning and her mind spinning. She didn't know what was happening. She'd never seen Sherlock look at _anyone _in the way he was looking at Irene before - for once, he looked human, he looked like a man, not a robot - his expression was all too easy to read. His eyes were roaming Irene's face and a smile was still playing with his lips. He wanted Irene, that was clear.

As for Molly, she just wanted to throw up. Or scream. Or both.

"Do you even have to ask?" Sherlock's voice was deep and smooth, the smirk on his face audible in it as he lowered his hand from her hair to her shoulder, never taking his eyes from hers. Molly took a sharp breath as Irene seemed to blush - an expression not suited to her face.

Then, just as she thought that it couldn't get any worse, Molly's worst nightmare began to play out in front of her, and she was powerless to stop it. She was rooted to the spot, silent, tears pricking the back of her eyes as to her horror, Sherlock tilted his head forward, on line with Irene's.

It was all too clear what he wanted. All too clear that Sherlock and Irene's relationship was _anything _but platonic.

Irene, however, lifted up her hand, raising three, perfect, bright red nails to press against Sherlock's mouth. "Now, now, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly, "do try and behave."

He smiled underneath her fingers and she grinned back. She began to trace her fingers along his jaw line, down his neck and continuing down his shirt until she had a loose hold on the end of his tie. Then, still holding it, she walked around him and pulled it lightly over his shoulder. Sherlock wheeled around, looking Irene up and down as if she were the only person in the room. She looked at him over her shoulder, grinning, obviously pleased with herself.

Molly couldn't help but gasp, trying to fight the tears. John coughed from behind her, catching Irene's attention. Sherlock was still fixed on Irene. Molly bit her lip and blinked rapidly, unsure of whether she was upset or angry.

"Oh, Molly!" Irene exclaimed happily, as if nothing had happened, grinning, "Didn't see you there!"

Molly's mouth was a thin, tight line. It was obvious that Irene had seen her - anyone with a brain cell could tell. There were only two other people in the room, Irene had to have seen her.  
Molly bit her tongue and stayed silent, not trusting herself to speak.

Irene was still grinning, but there was something different. There was a look in her eyes, a look which told Molly she knew _exactly _what she was doing.

Molly wanted to hit her.

"Well," she sighed, looking Molly up and down, "don't you look... cute."

Molly felt the tears threatening to break free at the back of her eyes again. No _way _was she going anywhere with this woman tonight. She couldn't stand to be in the same room as her.  
She felt... angry. Betrayed. Irene had told her that her relationship with Sherlock was just friendly, nothing more - she'd even promised Molly that she'd help her get him for herself. But it was clear, all too clear - there was no way in hell that Sherlock and Irene were just friends.

"So," Irene said again, still smiling, "shall we go, then?"

Molly took a sharp breath in through her nose, her eyebrows pulling together and her voice uneven. "Erm, actually - I don't ... I don't really feel like going anymore ... I feel a bit - I don't feel very well, I think... I'd better just go home..."

She tried to be assertive, she really did. She tried to give Irene a taste of her own medicine, to show her that she wasn't just a little girl. But the tears behind her eyes made her voice tremble and the block in her throat made her stutter. She sniffed again, her mind unclear. She didn't know what to do or what to say, she just knew that she had to get out. She could feel the tears, they were close now.

"Yeah... I'll ... I'll just go, I think. Maybe - I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Erm..."

And with that, she turned and left, slipping off her shoes at the top of the stairs, almost collapsing against the wall. She fought to keep the tears at bay, but they began to fall anyway.

She sniffed and blinked, but she couldn't stop them. She couldn't move.

It hurt. It hurt so badly.

She hadn't even been able to show Irene how angry she actually was. But that was Molly all over, wasn't it? She was pathetic. A pathetic little girl who couldn't stand up for herself, who people could walk over and get away with it.

Molly heard the sound of the door behind her clicking open and quickly wiped the tears from under her eyes, sniffing to keep them under control. She turned to see John standing there, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Molly..." He looked genuinely sympathetic.

"I'm fine, John. Really." She tried to smile.

"No, Molly - I'm really sorry."

She didn't need his sympathy. She didn't need any of them. "It's okay, I'm leaving now."

She started walking down the stairs, shoes in hand. John called after her.

"At least let me call you a cab!"

But she was already out of the door.

* * *

The walk home was long, especially in bare feet. And lonely, with so much to think about. So much hurt inside her.

In all honesty, she'd never had a chance with Sherlock anyway. Who'd look at her when Irene was around? She was nobody, nothing, not even worth the clothes she wore.

She couldn't help it, though. Irene had promised - she'd _promised _to help Molly with Sherlock, even after Molly had told her not to. She'd told Molly time and time again that she should 'make a move on Sherlock', because nobody else was going to. Because Sherlock and Irene's relationship was platonic. Purely platonic.

She'd lied. She'd flat out lied to her face.

And now, not only was her heart broken because the man she loved never even looked at her, never acknowledged her presence, but also because the only proper friend she had had stood on it - lied to her and betrayed her as if she meant nothing.

There was a time, back at Baker Street, a few blissful moments where Molly actually believed that Irene was right. That Sherlock would notice her. That maybe, just maybe he'd look at her and see a woman, not a girl. Not just someone who works at the morgue, but a person, a person he could get to know - maybe even love?

Ha. Who was she kidding?

It'd been snatched away from her within seconds.

What was is that Irene had said? _"Sherlock likes girls who know who they are, Molly, girls who take risks. People who aren't afraid of power, who'll climb over people to get to the top of the ladder and won't let anyone get in their way." _There was no way in hell Molly would ever be like that. Molly didn't even know where the bottom of the ladder was, never mind the top.

Her feet were cut and bleeding by the time she got back to her flat, but she didn't care. The cold on her skin and the pain in her feet were a welcome distraction from the ache in her chest, the constant degrading monologue in her head telling her that she was worthless.

She unlocked her door quickly, dumping her shoes by them. She didn't need them any more, she didn't want them. She just wanted to go to bed, to be free of the terrible thoughts plaguing her head. The tears had stopped now, but their stains remained and her head wouldn't clear. She closed the door behind her, thankful to be home at last, before turning around to face her flat.

Molly stopped dead, her breath caught in her throat. All thoughts of Irene, all thoughts of everything fled from her head. She wanted to scream but the noise wouldn't come out, she wanted to cry but her eyes were dry. Her heart began racing and her palms began sweating and her head began spinning as her rapid, uneven breathing made her feel like she wanted to collapse.

He was there, sitting neatly on her sofa, cradling the cat in his arms. He looked up at her, his black eyes glittering the same way they did in her nightmares, his suit as sharp as ever and his smile playing with his lips.

"Hello Molly," James Moriarty purred, "did you miss me?"


	8. Chapter 7

**Oh my god. Thankyou so much for all your lovely comments 3 Really, you all just about made my life.  
I'm a bit scared now that I won't be able to make this one as good as the last one... I can but try x)**

**This chapters a bit short - a lot shorter than the previous few. However, I've a feeling the next one will be quite long, as there's more than one thing I need to get into it.  
Oh, it's sad that i'm excited :')**

**Anyway, Onwards!**

Chapter Seven

She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She could barely even breath.

She knew, vaguely, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she should be screaming or running or shouting for help. But somehow, she found herself frozen, rooted to the spot, unable to turn her head or look away from _him - _the man from her nightmares, casually scratching behind her cat's ears as if he were meant to be there.

"Well?" he pressed, still looking at her, still smiling. He wasn't anything like the boyfriend she remembered; his sweet, awkward smile had been replaced with a twisted, self-assured smirk, his socially uncomfortable stance replaced with a strong posture that sent a clear message out to everyone - _he was in charge. _His suit was sharp and his top buttons undone in a way which eerily reminded her of Sherlock, and his eyes were black and empty, reminiscent of her nightmares.

She still didn't speak. She still didn't move.

"Molly," he crooned, almost singing, tilting his head sideways, "I _asked _you a question. Have we gone all shy?" He smirked.

"G-get out." Molly tried to sound forceful, but her voice came out as a whisper, raspy and dry. Jim - she still couldn't think of him as anything else, despite the fact _he_was so unlike her Jim - picked up the cat and put it down next to him, earning a protesting 'mew' from the animal. Then, he stood, brushing himself down in a way which, again, Molly couldn't help but compare to Sherlock, and strode slowly over to her. She almost collapsed.

"What was that, my sweet?" He said quietly, advancing all the time. Molly tried to clear her throat, but she still couldn't speak anywhere near ordinary volume.

"I said - get out. Or I'll-"

Jim cut her off with a laugh, piercing and mocking. Molly flinched. "Or you'll _what, _Molly? Phone the police? Oh, darling, I'd like to see you try. And even if by some_miracle _you did, I'd like to see Detective Inspector Lestrade and his gang of apes try and catch me - or, indeed, try and revive you once they're here."

The threat was subtle, nonchalant, part of normal conversation. But it blared out to Molly and made her breathing quicken. She had to get out. She had to tell someone.

He was bare inches from her now. "_Molly," _he breathed, and she could feel his breath on her cheek. She turned away, her eyes screwed shut, hoping desperately that this was just another nightmare.  
But he kept on speaking. "Don't pretend you don't want me here, love. Trust me, I know you better than you know yourself."

Something sparked inside Molly at that. She was sick of being told that - whether by him, the police, Irene or Sherlock himself. Molly's eyes snapped to meet Jim's - deep brown meeting cold black, something which she immediately regretted. Whatever fire had started burning instantly fizzled out. Jim grinned. Molly felt sick, trembling all over, but he grabbed her chin forcefully with his surprisingly strong hands, she couldn't look away.

"Ooh," he sang, "hit a nerve, have we?"

Molly grit her teeth, trying not to cry. She wouldn't let him get to her. She couldn't.

He smiled again, and dropped Molly's chin with harsh force, making her neck ache. She kept facing the floor, looking at her cut and bleeding feet, whilst he wiped his hands on his jacket as if she were some dirty child off the street.

It was her nightmare. Playing out in front of her.

"Oh, yes." He continued, ignoring the fact Molly was no longer looking at him, "I know all about your latest _drama, _dear. Well, really, 'drama' seems to follow dear Miss. Adler wherever she goes."

Molly's eyes grew wide, her head snapping up - which made her neck hurt again, but she didn't care. She was too preoccupied with how Jim knew about Irene.

"How- how did you-"

He grinned, beginning to pace. "Molly! Don't be silly. As if I'd let _you _of all people go unobserved for the past few months." Molly felt an electric shiver rush down her spine, her breathing hitching, but Jim just carried on. "I know everything, Molly - your silly police protection, your _friendship _with Miss. Adler... if you can call it that, of course. In the time I've known her, Irene Adler hasn't made _friends, _as such - more acquired tools, if you know what I mean."

Molly didn't know what he meant. She'd stopped listening after 'in the time I've known her'.

So Irene _did _know Jim. That's why she'd acted so strangely at the coffee shop the other day at the mention of Jim's name. Another lie, of course, but Molly didn't have time to think about that now.

"Why are you here?" She managed to croak, catching Jim's attention and earning a pitying smile.

"They used you, didn't they, Molly?"

Molly's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

He jutted his bottom lip out in a look of mock sympathy. "Poor little Molly Hooper - insecure, vulnerable, afraid... they played on that, didn't they, Molly? Irene and Sherlock... they knew what you were going through, but did they help?"

He paused, apparently waiting for an answer. An answer, of course, that Molly couldn't give. She tried to think clearly, to find an escape route, but his voice was so lilting, soothing - like a song or a spell, lulling her into a sense of security. She couldn't turn her mind away from his words. And, obviously, the answer - once found - was not ideal. Sherlock and Irene _had _been overly cruel to Molly, there was no doubt about that. But she was sure... they hadn't done it on purpose - had they?

"No," he continued, almost singing into her ear, "they didn't. They've used you Molly. You helped them - you always do. And what do they give you in return?"  
_  
Nothing, _was her immediate thought, _he's right._

She caught herself just in time. He was doing it again - putting her under his spell. She wouldn't let him. Not this time.

"What do you want?" She asked, as forcefully as she could manage. But, obviously, he ignored her.

"Little Molly Hooper. Naï ve, childish little Molly Hooper."

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She'd had enough of this. From Sherlock, from Irene, from Jim - she wasn't a child. "Stop it."

"Insecure, vulnerable, little Molly Hooper."

Molly gritted her teeth. She knew, deep down, she was all of those things, and more. But she couldn't listen to it. She couldn't be reminded. "Stop it."

"Mouldable. Gullible. Trusting."

"_Stop it._" She tried to stop listening, to focus on anything but his words, but they hit her like knives, straight in the stomach, reminding her of exactly _why _Irene had been able to mess with her quite so much.

She screwed her eyes up now, but she could hear him closer, feel his presence inches away from her cheek. He spat the words at her like poison, straight into her ear so she couldn't help but listen.

"Lonely. Clingy. Innocent. _Pathetic-_"

"STOP IT!" She screamed, shaking all over. Tentatively, she slid her eyes to meet Jim's - this close, they were truly terrifying; empty, cold, seemingly never-ending. A smirk twisted it's way across his face.

"Temper, temper."

Molly stayed silent, looking back to the floor. She'd let him break her, she'd led him get to her. She couldn't let that happen again.

"Is that how they make you feel, Molly? Pathetic?"

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, looking anywhere but at his face.

"Is that how others see you? Is that how you see yourself?"

His voice was quiet, but his words were sharp, working their way into her head as much as she tried to stop them. Then, she shivered as she felt his hot breath on her ear.

"I can change that," he whispered, "I can help you. I can change you into Irene Adler if you want, Molly - or I can make you better."

She looked up and met his eyes as he walked slowly around in front of her, her hair still dangling around her face. Despite how much she didn't want to, how much she tried to concentrate on something else, she couldn't help but believe him. This man - this _monster _- was powerful, Molly knew that. He didn't look it, but she'd been assured by countless people that he had most of the criminal underground under his thumb. He spoke of her wildest dreams, her deepest desire - to be stronger, more confident and powerful. Anyone but Molly.

Her voice was still shaky. "What do you want from me, Jim?"

He grinned. "Clever girl, Molly. Nothing comes free in this life."

She swallowed, trying to moisten her dry throat. He never took his eyes away from hers - and she couldn't bring herself to look away.

"Think of it this way, Molly. You help me, and I'll help you. I can give you everything you've ever wanted, and you can help me in return. Together, Molly," he reached up with one hand and trailed his fingers down her cheek, his skin cold to hers, "together, we can prove them wrong."

They stood there, then - for how long, Molly wasn't sure - just looking at one another, staring into each other's eyes. Jim looked calm, confident in his words, almost... truthful. He couldn't be truthful, could he? He was a criminal mastermind.

But his face, his expression... there was something about him that made Molly certain he wasn't lying. She fell blindly into fantasies in her own head; worlds where Sherlock and Irene and even Doctor Watson would revere her, respect her, see her for who she was. All she'd ever wanted.

And Jim promised her that.

A noise from her handbag, still slung over her elbow, interrupted her thoughts, snapping her out of her trance-like state. She blinked rapidly, coming back to the present. Jim's expression didn't change.

It took her more than a few seconds to realise that the noise was, in fact, her phone, ringing. Somebody was calling her.

Jim arched an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to get that?"

Instantly, she began to sieve through the items in her bag, looking for the phone. Finally, she found it, still singing and buzzing and lighting up in the dark space. Molly pulled it out and looked at the name, inadvertently reading it aloud.

"Irene."

She saw Jim smirk as she contemplated what to do. Before she could make a decision, however, he spoke.

"Think on what I've said, Molly," he said, smoothing out his jacket, "I'll be back tomorrow, after you're home. I'll expect a decision."

He began to walk towards the door. Molly watched him go, waving over his shoulder as he was halfway through the doorway.

"Until tomorrow, Molly."

The door clicked behind him.

Molly turned back to her phone, releasing a long, shaky breath before clicking the 'answer' button.

"Hello?" She hoped she didn't sound as terrified as she felt.

"Hi, Molly," the familiar voice purred down the phone, "Listen, about before..."

Irene trailed off. Molly didn't speak. She didn't care about who she was talking to right then - she was too caught up in the fact she'd just been visited by her psychopathic ex-boyfriend.

She heard Irene sigh. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean anything by it... I just, oh, I don't know - Sherlock and I have a history, you know? I just got caught up in the moment, I enjoy messing with him, playing him at his own game - and really, Molly, there aren't many ways you can do that, are there?"

Lies. Molly knew it. She couldn't believe anything Irene said any more. She felt anger pooling in the pit of her stomach.

"I promise you, Molly, I'll leave him be now. I just - oh, I just needed to assure myself, I suppose, that he was still the man I knew. He's all yours, Molly, really."

Molly clenched her teeth, still silent. Irene rambled on.

"And besides, did you see the way he looked at you? Molly, dear, he was putty in your hands. You looked so... lovely, I just wanted to eat you up myself!" She giggled.

Molly took a sharp breath. There it was. The patronizing tone, the way of talking to her as if she were two inches tall. Molly couldn't stand it. It cleared her mind.

She thought about telling Irene about Jim, about the way he was waiting for her when she got home, but something stopped her. Irene had messed her around, Sherlock had messed her around - the thought of having a secret from them, a potentially dangerous secret, gave her some kind of thrill, sending electric shivers down her spine.

She could keep it from them, at least for a while, and that would give her power over them of some sort. That would prove once and for all that she wasn't a child.

"Molly?"

Molly gave a non-committal hum and hung up the phone, still unsure exactly what had happened, hoping to high heavens that Irene wouldn't ring back.

She collapsed on her sofa, picking up the cat which was purring around her feet.

She was so confused, almost numb, not knowing what to do next. Should she tell Irene and Sherlock about Jim?

Suddenly, that looked very unlikely. Molly knew that when Irene undoubtedly tried to make up with her further the next day, Molly wouldn't be able to stay angry. She'd never had the talent. But she could - how had Irene put it? - _play them at their own game._

She knew she was playing with fire, and that if something went wrong she wasn't the only one James Moriarty would burn. But the feeling of having one over on Sherlock and Irene, on the Police force itself, thrilled Molly to her core in a way she didn't expect, somehow neutralising her fear.

Besides, she wouldn't keep it a secret for too long. But for now, Molly was happy to play her own game, for once.


	9. Chapter 8

**Oh. My. God. You guuuys x)  
Your reviews make me happy, incase you haven't guessed :D  
Anyway, sorry I haven't updated in so long, I've been busy with Real Life, but I'm back! :D  
Here's chapter eight, I hope you like it!  
(Many thanks to my Beta :DD)**

Chapter Eight.

Molly didn't even smile at the receptionist on the way into work the next day. She kept her head down, music plugged straight into her ears, isolated from the world yet still filling her head with enough melody and lyrics that she didn't have to think.

She'd had another nightmare that night. Different from usual.

It started off the same, running from Jim, running through the rain, falling - but when he wrapped his arms around her, whispering into her ear... that's when she heard it.

The laughing.

She couldn't decide whether it was male or female at first, but she knew it was definitely there. She remembered trying to look up, but Jim wouldn't let her. But when the laughing stopped and the voices started - then she knew exactly who it was.

"Aww," it sang, "Little Molly Hooper."

Then, Jim let her go, and Molly fell to the floor. Slowly looking up, she saw her - Irene Adler, glowing in the darkness, her long red hair tumbling around her shoulders in the same perfect way as in real life. A grin slowly spread across her face, never taking her eyes from Molly's, but before she said anything else, Molly woke up.

She wasn't in the mood for people. Not today.

Having been up at three o'clock - sleep had mysteriously evaded her after the ghostly vision of Irene Adler in her dreams - Molly had had plenty of time to think; something which she wished she really hadn't. She kept going over the events of the previous day in her head; she couldn't bring herself to understand it. It didn't make sense, not even to her.

Why hadn't she told Irene about Jim on the phone? Why hadn't she called the police? And, above all, why on earth wasn't she more frightened? The very man from her nightmares had appeared to her in real life, and she hadn't resorted to panic attacks and locking herself away. She'd come into work as usual, if a little anti-social, more worried about why Irene had appeared in her dream than anything else.

It was at times like this she wished her lab had a lock on the door. But, of course, it didn't.

And, of course, befitting of Molly's general luck, there was a lovely note on the table in her lab telling her that there was another Baker body brought in over night, and would Molly have a look at please, because she's ever so familiar with the case?

Molly groaned. How was there any Bakers left? She was sure that, by now, whoever this guy was, he'd killed them all.

She pushed the note to the floor and pretended she hadn't seen it. Molly wasn't in the mood for people today - least of all dead ones.

Plus, the addition of another Baker body brought another problem into the day - it was certain, that with a hook like that, Sherlock would undoubtedly be gracing the morgue with his presence today, his entourage in tow. And Molly had to have some time alone to prepare for what she'd do when she saw them.

First of all, Sherlock. Would she tell him about Jim? She honestly didn't know. She knew that doing so would be the sensible thing to do, but the idea of letting him figure it out himself was still there, whispering in the back of Molly's mind. It would be kind of fun, she guessed, to be holding the cards for once. To be the one in control.

So, she could be angry with him. He wouldn't know why, but Molly would, and that would be enough. She knew that in films, the thing to do in this kind of situation was to prove 'the other woman' wrong, to win the man for herself. But Molly was fairly certain that couldn't happen, so anger would have to do.

Then, Irene. Well, she was self explanatory. Molly wouldn't acknowledge her, she decided. She couldn't. She'd let the cocky, lying redhead stew for a while - maybe forever, she didn't know.

John was more difficult - he hadn't actually done anything wrong. Molly knew that, if it were anyone, John would be the one she'd tell about Jim. But she also knew he'd tell Sherlock, and that wasn't what she'd want. So, she'd give him the same treatment as the others.

Feeling rather pleased with her plan, Molly pulled some work from an entirely unrelated case out from under the bench and spread it out in front of her, blindly staring at it. Because, as sure as she was with her plan, there was something that just wouldn't let go.

She should tell someone about Jim. She shouldn't play games with James Moriarty. That was a very dangerous thing to try, and anyone who did got hurt - who was Molly to break tradition?

Molly had less time than she'd liked to think this new point over, as soon enough, the door clicked open behind her and, as a reflex, Molly turned to watch him walk in.

"Molly." He didn't even look at her, just said her name and aimed it in her general direction. Yet still, after all her planning and convincing her self that _she _was powerful,_she _was in control, her breath caught in her throat.

How was it that one man could look so unashamedly _perfect _all of the time?

Molly felt herself melting back into the blushing, awkward, incoherent Molly Hooper that she was inside. She couldn't be the woman from the films, strong and angry. She couldn't be Irene Adler.  
She still didn't say anything, though. She just watched as Sherlock began pushing bits of paper around on the other bench, obviously looking for something.

Doctor Watson didn't even speak as he came in, and Molly didn't look at him. She knew he understood that she was hurting - he was probably the only one that did. She knew that he knew as well as she did that Irene Adler had been playing a cruel game, and that Molly had been nothing but a pawn. She'd been set up like one of Sherlock's experiments, and watched by Irene as she squirmed.

He limped to the nearest stable surface and leaned against it. Only then did Molly offer him a small smile. His, in return, looked sympathetic. His eyes were warm as usual, his expression looked genuinely understanding. It was his expression that made Molly's mind trip up.

What the hell was she doing?

She couldn't play games with these men - they hadn't even been involved. She couldn't play games with Moriarty - she wasn't strong or powerful, she couldn't even look Sherlock in the eye. She had to tell them about her meeting with him last night; of course she did.

How could she have been so stupid not to?

She bit her lip.

"Sherlock..." she began quietly, catching the men's attention.

Sherlock straightened up and turned to face her, John doing the same, leaning on her stick. Despite the fact it was Sherlock who she had called, it was John who answered.

"Are you alright, Molly?"

Molly looked him in the eyes, convinced that this was the right thing to do. After all, they could help her, couldn't they? They could get rid of Jim Moriarty once and for all and everything would go back to normal.

The words seemed stuck in her throat. She took a deep breath.

Inevitably, though, she was interrupted. And, also inevitably, she was interrupted by the sound of high heels clicking down the corridor.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. Molly's voice died and she looked to the floor. Doctor Watson groaned loudly.

"Oh, Jesus Christ."

She tried to stop herself, to be angry and to not acknowledge the other woman, but when the clicking stopped Molly couldn't help but look to the doorway. Irene had a sort of magnetism about her, forever demanding attention.

She wasn't looking at Molly, she was looking at one of the men. Which one, Molly couldn't tell - and she didn't want to find out. She looked as pristine as always, her long red hair tied back yet still, somehow, reaching halfway down her back. Molly looked back to the floor when Doctor Watson spoke. His voice was clipped and angry.

"What the hell do you want, Adler?"

"Oooh!" Irene sang like a three year old. "Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning."

Molly heard John grumble as Irene walked in. She looked up, and Irene was looking straight at her, still walking past. The other woman winked, Molly tried to scowl, but she was sure her face wouldn't comply.

"So, Sherlock," Irene went on, "What are you up to?"

Sherlock straightened up. "Still trying to piece together this case." he grumbled, "I don't understand... the facts are there-"

"Proving difficult?"

Sherlock hummed. "You wouldn't think so, would you?"

"Oh well," Irene sighed, stalking up to Sherlock, "I'm sure you'll manage."

It was then Molly saw the look on her face. She was smiling in a way which was far too similar to the way she'd smiled the night before. And, once again, Sherlock was watching her.

Molly's stomach flipped. They couldn't be... _she _wouldn't...

Before Molly knew it, Irene was inches away from Sherlock again. John let out a noise that sounded a lot like a growl.

"Adler..."

But Irene ignored him, instead choosing to glance at Molly, a sly smile spread across her face and her eyes glittering mischievously. Molly felt sick already - but what happened next just about made her want to throw up.

She kissed him.

She stood up straight and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer until their lips were touching, and then she kissed him - the most passionate, fiery kiss Molly had ever seen. Before the event had really registered, Sherlock had his arms around Irene, his hands on her waist, and she had her hands in his hair - those perfect, raven curls...

Molly couldn't look away, just stood, transfixed, like watching a horror film. But she didn't feel the same as she had the previous night - no, now Molly just felt angry. She could feel the scowl on her face, the fire inside of her, tainting her thoughts and making her want to scream. There was only so long she could bottle it up, but she tried.

Then, as suddenly as it had happened, it stopped - Irene turned away from Sherlock as if nothing had happened, leaving the man ruffled and dumbstruck, still hanging with lipstick smeared around his mouth.

With an angry scoff, Molly heard John begin to limp out. She didn't care. She couldn't take her eyes off Irene, or turn her mind away from the positively murderous thoughts plaguing her head. She barely noticed when Sherlock cried "John!" after his friend, or, indeed, when he ran out after the older man, not bothering to wipe the lipstick off his face.

However, she did notice - when Irene turned to watch Sherlock leave - the smile that was undoubtedly playing with her lips despite her obvious attempts to smile it.

What Molly wouldn't have given for the ability to wipe that smile off her face.  
_  
"I can turn you into Irene Adler if you want... or I can make you better."_

She couldn't help but think of his words, his offer ... if he was here, he'd know what to do. If she was more like him, Irene wouldn't be able to mess with her.

The other woman spun on her heel and began to walk out of the lab without a word. Molly cleared her throat.

"Where are _you _going?"

Irene turned back around, her head tilted to one side. "After Sherlock," she said softly, and then paused. "Is there a problem?"

Molly let out a low laugh that wouldn't have been misplaced coming from Jim. "Problem?" Molly shook her head. "You _promised... _you _promised _me-"

Irene's shrill laugh cut her off. "Oh, Molly! Get over yourself! Get over him! You were never going to get him, you didn't even _try-_"

"No!" Molly shouted, "No, Irene! I had a chance! You made it that way! Why, Irene? Why did you do that only to shoot me down?"

Irene narrowed her eyes. "Did you just raise your voice at me, Molly?"

Molly scoffed. "Stop that! I'm sick of it! I'm not a _child, _Irene-"

"Are you sure?"

Molly felt the tears prick at the back of her eyes. "Shut up! Why did you do it?"

Irene smirked. Her eyes were glittering and her voice was low and venomous. "Because I _can, _Molly."

Molly didn't know what to say to that. Irene carried on, walking towards her.

"You're so innocent, so trusting and gullible - I could see it from the first time we met... the chance was irresistible! You're so easy to mess with because you're so naive, Molly - the perfect subject for my game. And with your infatuation for Sherlock - ha! How could I not play with you for a little while? Forever ignored by the one man you loved - because, of course, Molly, he never once looked at you, and he never will. You're pathetic, Molly. You're weak. Why would a man like Sherlock - a man so perfect and intelligent - ever even _look _at you? The girl played by Moriarty, and now I see why. He used you like I did, so easy to do - you were my entertainment, Molly! I have to say, without you, my stay in England would have been very dull. But I'm bored now, Molly, the game's over and I've played my  
last card. So don't try and stand up to me, okay? Go back to whatever hole you came from and don't ever cross me - because I swear, Molly, you won't win. So be a good girl, and go home, yeah?"

Irene was face to face with her now, her speech rendering Molly speechless. She pushed Molly forcefully into the bench behind them and Molly fell to the floor as Irene began to stalk away.

Before she reached the door, however, she looked over her shoulder at Molly, still dazed on the floor.

"Aww," she sang, mocking and venomous, "look at little Molly Hooper."

Molly winced as the door slammed shut, but she didn't cry.

Because she knew exactly what she had to do.

She didn't bother clearing up the mess in her lab, or collecting her things together - her phone, coat and handbag lay forgotten on a stool. She stormed out of the lab, out of the building, not saying a word to anyone. It was freezing, but Molly barely noticed, powering through the London streets with fierce determination.

She wasn't going to stand for it. Not any more.

Surprisingly, her mind wasn't foggy or spinning or clogged with depression, angst and tears - it was clear, the clearest it had ever been, and the way forward was so blindingly obvious that Molly had to wonder how she hadn't seen it before.

She'd show Irene Adler and Sherlock, she'd show them all just who she was - how strong she could be. And then she'd play her own game, and she'd be respected for once.

She arrived at her flat cold and silent, opened the door with a grimace on her face.

He was there, of course, meeting her eyes as she stepped into the doorway but not saying a word.

Molly took a deep breath.

"Tell me what you want me to do."

Jim grinned and stood up, slowly stalking towards Molly like a cat. He leaned in close to her ear, and his hand rested on either of Molly's shoulders as he kicked the door shut with a bang.

"I want you to help me," he whispered, "Help me burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes."


	10. Chapter 9

**Hello everyone :D  
Thanks again so much for all your lovely reviews :')) I promise, that once this story is finished, I'll reply to every reviewer personally. I would have replied to every review, only I'm scared that if I do I'll give something away! And that's exactly what I don't want to happen.  
Thanks again to Elly :DD  
Anyway, I've got nothing else to say, except this is a sort of filler, set-up chapter.  
Enjoy! x**

Chapter Nine.

"You won't leave here. Not until I say you can. It's very important you do as I say, Molly. Just for now. Just until I can set you free."

Molly was curled up on the sofa, under his arm as he gently ran his fingers through her hair, as he would do to a child or a cat. Molly's heart was pounding in her chest - she was surprised he couldn't hear it - but the gentle thud of Jim's own heart underneath her ear calmed her, it's steady rhythm easing her, assuring her that she'd done the right thing. She listened carefully to Jim's every word, feeling the rumble of his voice even before any sound came out.

She should have been panicking, she knew. But Molly was certain she'd made the right decision. This was the only way to show Irene exactly who she was messing with - to get her revenge, so to speak. Maybe even win Sherlock back off her - under normal circumstances, Molly wouldn't have even dreamed that. But here, under Jim's arm, she felt like anything was possible. She felt safe.

"We'll show them, Molly. Together, we can do anything."

Molly couldn't help but agree, in that moment.

* * *

She'd fallen asleep there, leaning on Jim, just listening to him breathe. But when she woke up the next morning, she wasn't leaning on anything but the sofa.

Jim had gone.

Her breathing immediately quickened and she leapt to her feet, making herself a little dizzy in the process. Where was he? Had he left her again? Had he been there at all? Molly's thoughts were spinning as she frantically made her way into the kitchen, before a small note caught her eye, pinned to the table.  
_  
I'll be back later. Don't go out.  
JM  
x_

Molly's breathing returned to normal as she slumped into the chair nearest the note, staring at the intricate, slanted writing on the post-it note.

She couldn't pretend that she wasn't a little unnerved by how much she'd panicked at the fact that Jim wasn't there, nor that she didn't get shivers at the fact that Jim signed his name in the exact same way as Sherlock. Their similarities were shocking - it was as if they were the same person, split into two.

Molly smirked. It was like she had her own personal Sherlock. Irene hadn't won, after all.

Tracing her fingers across the patterns in the wooden table, Molly spotted another note on the counter and a box on top of it. She pushed herself up heavily and made her way over to it. There, in the same, perfect writing, was another message.  
_  
This is your new phone, Molly. I'll contact you through this, and only through this. It's untraceable, unhackable - nobody will listen to what we're saying.  
You won't need your old phone any more, but I've left it where it is - on the coffee table in the front room. Use it to see how much they miss you Molly, how much they care you're not there.  
It will cement your faith in me, if anything.  
As I said, I'll be back soon. Stay here Molly - please, trust me.  
Stay safe.  
JM  
x_

She opened the plain white box on top of the note and gently pulled out the phone inside, turning it over in her fingers. It was brand new, no doubt about that - the screen protector hadn't even been taken off the front, the back was scratch-free. In comparison, it made her little Nokia look quite underrated.

Carefully replacing the phone, she made her way back into the front room, wondering what he'd meant in his note. _'Use it to see how much they miss you, Molly.'_

Of course, she never missed a day of work. Not even when she was traumatized by nightmares of her ex-boyfriend; she turned up every day with a smile on her face, pulling up a mask to the world.  
Somebody was bound to notice she wasn't there - she was already three hours late. Sherlock might even be there now - he was sure to realize she was missing, bound to wonder why.

With a small smile creeping across her face at the expected missed calls and messages, Molly picked up her phone and unlocked it. When she did, however, she almost threw it back down, a cold pain hitting the bottom of her stomach.

There were no messages. Not even one.

Hadn't anyone noticed she hadn't turned up for work? Didn't anyone care?

She collapsed onto the sofa next to the coffee table, still clutching her phone. The cat leapt up onto her knee, purring and padding around, searching for attention. Molly pushed it away. She didn't care she was still in the same clothes she'd come home in last night, nor did she care she hadn't even had so much as a wash since the previous morning.

No, because Molly was gritting her teeth, assuring herself that soon, very soon they would all notice her. They would all notice her whether she was there or not and they'd all have no choice but to care. Because soon, Molly Hooper was going to be a force to be reckoned with, she was sure of that.

She sat there for a good fifteen minutes before she heard a phone ringing.

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the noise, flipping the mobile in her hand over instantly and without thinking, her heart giving a jolt at the thought of somebody checking up on her. But the screen was still dark, no sign of anyone calling her at all.

It was then she realized the noise was coming from the next room. From her _new _phone.

Molly took a deep breath before picking up the phone and clicking the green button through the screen protector. "Hello?"

"Molly!" And all-too familiar voice sang from the other line. Molly still wasn't used to hearing it and trusting it. "Do you like the new phone?"

Molly let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah - thanks. You didn't-"

"Of course I had to, Molly! Can't have other people listening to what we're saying, can we?"

Molly's stomach squirmed uncomfortably at that. The very thought that someone might actually _want _to listen to what they were saying was bad enough - but the fact that it was so secret Jim had gone to such lengths to make sure they couldn't? It made Molly feel like she was in a Bond film. And, even more disturbingly, at that moment, she could only imagine herself playing the bad guy.

"Anyway," Jim went on, pulling Molly from her thoughts, "I rang to tell you to get ready and get packing."

He said it so nonchalantly, so much as a part of normal conversation, that it took Molly a few minutes to fully register what he'd said. She caught him just before he hung up.

"Wait, what? Packing? Why?"

Jim chuckled at the other end of the line. "Because you're coming with me, Molly. I told you, we need to worry them. We need to make them think you're missing. We can't do that if they know where you are, can we?"

Molly frowned. "Why do they need to think I'm missing?"

She could practically hear the grin in Jim's voice. "Because I've got plans, Molly. Really, really big plans. And you, my dear, take a starring role. One bag, Molly, that's all you're getting. Don't make anybody too suspicious - only take the bare essentials. Some clothes, your new phone - things like that. Nothing else, okay?"

Molly heard the rush of wind as Jim took the phone away from his face, still in stunned silence. She was moving house? Today?

Suddenly, Jim's voice was back in her ear. "Oh, and don't forget to bring the cat. Toby, is it? Yes. I like him. Bring him too."

Then he hung up, and Molly couldn't help but smile.

* * *

Packing was surprisingly easy, considering nothing was anywhere near ready and she didn't have a clue where she was going.

She was done by the end of the afternoon; her wardrobes mostly clear, whether the clothes had been put in a case or thrown on the bed. Her room looked like a bomb had hit, or like it had been ransacked by thieves, but Molly didn't care. It wasn't as if she'd be sleeping in it for a while, now. In the end, she doubted that it would matter if she forgot something - after all, she had Jim now, and she was sure that he'd help her with whatever she needed.

It was around half past five when the doorbell rang, long after Molly had heaved the over-heavy suitcase near to the door. So, bundling a protesting Toby under her arm and taking yet another deep breath, Molly opened the door.

The man on the other side wasn't Jim. She didn't know who it was, but it wasn't Jim. He was dressed like Jim - sharp suit and tie, impeccably perfect - but he wasn't Jim.

Her first reaction was fear. _Somebody knew about them! About what she was doing! _Her breathing quickened and she almost dropped the cat, earning yet more protests from the animal. She tried her best to keep a straight face though, to hide what she was feeling - after all, she'd gotten pretty good at it over the past six months.

"Can I help you?" She asked innocently. The man smirked.

"Miss Hooper, is it? I'm here on behalf of Mr Moriarty. I'm was told you'd be ready for me..." he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a note, "Here... he said to give this to you."

Molly took the note, now only supporting the cat with one arm. She was sure that soon, it would start to attack her.  
_  
This is Adam, Molly. He's here to take you to our new house. I'm sorry I can't be there myself, sweetie - but I can't really show myself much in public, being top of the Most Wanted list and all.  
I'll be waiting for you. Please, keep trusting me.  
JM  
x_

The sight of the now familiar handwriting soothed Molly in a way she didn't expect. She stuffed it in her pocket before cradling the cat, now with both arms, and offering a bright smile to Adam.

"Yes." she said, "Sorry about that. Shall we go, then?"

Adam smirked again, his long blonde fringe falling into his face as his gave a curt nod. "Sure. Here, let me take your bag."

Molly held back a giggle as the man stepped forward and picked up her bag, before nodding towards the exit. "The car's just outside..." he trailed off. Molly smiled a tight-lipped smile and stepped backwards.

"That's okay, I'll be out in a sec."

Adam suddenly looked uneasy, and for the first time, Molly noticed just how young he was. He couldn't have been older than nineteen; his age well hidden by his sharp suit and earlier cocky smirk. But now, with the idea of being unable to follow his orders, he looked anxious... scared, even? "It's just that Mr. Moriarty said that I shouldn't-"

"It's okay," Molly cut in, "I'll be out in a minute. I promise." She smiled again.

Biting his lip and with an anxious nod, Adam reluctantly turned and left, heaving Molly's bag along with him. Molly stood just inside the doorway of her flat, still cradling Toby, taking a scan of her front room.

"Well, Toby - say goodbye. I don't know when we'll be back here."

Molly continued scratching the cat behind the ear, and it let out a soft sound of protest. Molly shushed him.

"It's okay... it's okay. Jim will look after us, he promised he would. We're going to be fine, Toby. We're going to be great."

Still looking around the flat, Molly's eyes fell on her phone, lying on the arm of the sofa still. Her new phone lay cold and heavy in her jeans pocket - she didn't need her old phone anymore, she knew that. She didn't know whether she was even allowed to take it with her, he'd specifically said 'your _new _phone' earlier - there was obviously a reason Jim had gone to the trouble of getting her a new one. Or, had he 'fixed' her old phone too? There was still attachment to it; some kind of tugging inside.

After all, how else would she know they were missing her? How else would she know they'd been trying to get in contact with her?

Glancing at the doorway to make sure Adam wasn't watching, Molly stuffed her phone into the inside pocket of her jacket where it couldn't be seen and hurried towards the door. She pulled her keys down off the hook as she was leaving -just in case - and finally, with a sigh, turned to look at her flat. She didn't know when - or if - she'd ever be returning.

Then, with a last look at her front room, Molly turned and left the only house she'd ever lived in alone, with no idea where she was heading.

But she knew it was somewhere better than where she was.


	11. Chapter 10

**Hey guys!  
Sorry this took so long, but I've got exams coming up and so school's gone a bit mental. Nevertheless, here's the next chapter! I was hoping to get a bit more plot in, but if I had, the chapter would have been like a million words long or something, so it'll start properly in the next one. Not that this bit isn't important. But I'm still nervous about it now, come to think of it; I hope you still like it!  
One more thing; this chapter hasn't been Beta-ed because my beta's been busy. So, sorry in advance for any spelling/grammatical mistakes. I'm not the best at proof-reading :)  
Thanks for reading, and don't forget to review :) They've all been so lovely so far, thankyou very much :)  
Onwards!**

Chapter Ten.

Molly had no idea how long she'd been driving for, but she guessed it was at least two hours. Adam had sat in the front of the car, separated from her by a screen, silent for the entire journey. Molly wouldn't have minded - she found the young man a little strange, his personality seemed to fluctuate so quickly - but she couldn't even look out of the window. Of course, in a car as high class as this one, the windows were blacked out.

So she just sat, cradling Toby in her lap and trying to keep him still, the weight of her forbidden phone heavy in her pocket. Trying not to think about it, Molly tried to guess where she was going. Or, indeed, where she was.

She knew they couldn't be in the same area of the city anymore, if she was still in the city at all. She knew one thing; Adam had been driving very fast. Whether that was because of an excess of motorways or a disregard for the highway code, she didn't know. He didn't even look like he was old enough to drive, never mind understand the rules.

A voice brought her out of her thoughts. It took her a minute to realise it was Adam's

"We're here, Miss Hooper." He shot her a smirk in the rear view mirror. She smiled sheepishly back. She didn't have any idea just where 'here' was.

Adam turned a few corners and then stopped the car, climbing out and leaving Molly in the back seat. She tried to open the door and follow him, in an attempt to finally find out where she was, but the door was locked. Molly sighed in exasperation. She wouldn't have been surprised if Adam left her there.

But, soon enough, her door opened, a grinning young blonde man on the other side. "Child lock," was his only explanation as Molly clambered from the car, still clutching the protesting Toby.

"Wow."

The street was completely deserted, the only sound of Adam's footsteps as he walked to the back of the car to retrieve Molly's bag. They stood infront of a huge, modern townhouse, standing in a long row of similar buildings. The darkness made it difficult to see, with the moon hidden behind a veil of clouds and the street lamps offering a pathetic, dusty glow; but still, Molly was amazed. It was so fancy - nothing like she'd ever seen before. Nothing like her little flat, her little corner of London. No, this was upmarket. She'd always thought she lived in a nice area of London, not too far from the centre, clean and civilised and not nearly as rough as most places - but this... this was something else. The houses stretched into the sky, with white pillars on either side of the front doors and white windows with window-boxes outside. Gates guarded each house, with metal fencing continuing across the front of the buildings and trees dotted across the pavement. There were steps to get to each front door and small gardens between the metal fencing and the building; some with hedges, some with flowers and trees. It was ever so pretty, so modern and clean - and it looked _really _expensive, too.

"Nice, isn't it?" Adam was back, hauling Molly's suitcase onto the pavement. Molly nodded.

"Where are we?"

Adam grinned, looking down at Molly through the corner of his eye. "Nope. Sorry. Can't tell you that. Why do think we went all around the world to get here, in a blacked-out car? Mr Moriarty doesn't want you to know where you are, Miss."

Molly's stomach flipped at that. She swallowed. "Wh...why?"

Adam shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know, do I? I just do as I'm told."

Molly looked to the floor, grasping Toby tighter. It scared her that she didn't - couldn't - know where she was. Why had he gone to such lengths to make sure of that? Everything was so secretive, so black-market... a small voice in the back of Molly's head told her to run, now, whilst she still had the chance, but Molly shook it away. No, this was where she was meant to be. Where would she go? Back to Sherlock... back to Irene? No. Never. Everything would be better from now on. Jim had promised.

As soon as she thought that, the door of the house directly opposite opened, and it took Molly a while to notice that Adam was already lugging her case up the steps to the front door. It didn't take her long to recognise the man in the doorway, however, and she felt herself grinning as she walked up to meet him.

"Molly, darling!" Jim called as she reached him, not caring for the fact that the rest of the people in the street were obviously sleeping. He strode towards her, arms wide. Molly smiled sheepishly.

"Jim, this is amazing..."

"Oh, it's just somewhere I like to call home. Come in! Adam will bring your bags."

Jim didn't bother to check with Adam that this was indeed the case, but the young man lifted the bag once more anyway. Molly followed Jim into the house, instantly looking around and taken aback once more - they weren't in a hallway as she had expected, but rather one big room, a twisting staircase in the corner leading to the upper floor. Molly was pretty sure her mouth was agape as she looked around, but she didn't care, carefully dropping Toby to the floor so that she could look properly. The black leather couches were immaculately neat, all pointed towards a huge, flatscreen television on the wall with a fluffy white rug infront of them, laid across the wooden floor. What seemed to be the kitchen area lay ahead of her - she could see from even where she was that all of the counter-tops were sparkling, their glittering black granite surfacing perfectly clean and each utensil - and it looked like there was every one imaginable - in it's right and proper place on the wall. There was a table, too, for eating at, aside from the bar in the wall in the kitchen. It was to her left, in a sort of dining room space, a glass table supported on some kind of twisting sculpture - what it was meant to be, Molly couldn't tell, but it was beautiful in it's own, minimalist and abstract kind of way. There was art on the walls, too - huge, bright canvasses injecting the only colour into the room, probably first-editions by some ridiculously expensive artist. Molly couldn't wait to look upstairs.

"Do you like it?" Jim had his arms around her waist now as she was still stunned by the sight. She managed to nod slowly, and he chuckled into her neck. "I designed it myself. Can't have too much clutter, drives me mad. Would you like to see your room?"

Molly turned her head slightly to look Jim in the eyes. Their intensity was almost blinding; glittering, black emptiness with a spark of madness that Molly _knew _lay beneath. It made her shiver.

"My room?"

Jim nodded and took her hand, leading her towards the staircase as Adam was just leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

* * *

Molly had never dreamed of living in a place like the house Jim had brought her to. It was fancy and expensive, and well beyond anything Molly could ever, ever afford. She spent the first few days just exploring the three floors of the house - the upper two weren't like the first, they all had separate rooms. Bedrooms and bathrooms and studies - Molly even swore she found something akin to a modernized library - each as meticulously designed as the next. Her own room was all in various shades of brown and beige - colours, which brought a lovely, homely quality to it, even if the bed was about five times the size of anything she'd ever have at home.

Truth be told, however, the novelty of walking around a huge London townhouse alone wore off after a week.

Molly hardly ever saw Jim, he was always out working or something - Molly never knew quite what he was doing, but she didn't think it polite to ask. He didn't get back until late in the night most days, after Molly was asleep, and left before they could have a proper conversation. That isn't to say he didn't look after her - no, every day someone would turn up at the front door at around six'o clock with a ready-cooked dinner for Molly and a note from Jim explaining where the food had come from - usually some michilan starred chef who just 'owed a favour' to Jim.

But still, it was lonely in a house so big with nobody but the cat for company. She'd expected a relationship when Jim had first come back into her life, offering her the world - but it was clear now that he didn't. The fact that they had separate rooms proved that. Talking on her new, shiny phone just didn't have the closeness that she'd anticipated.

Her phone. That was another thing plaguing her mind. Her old phone, of course. She hadn't brought the charger in her panic, so it mostly stayed off - but Molly turned it on every day, checking and waiting for some kind of sign that somebody, anybody had noticed that she wasn't there. Someone cared enough to inquire as to where she'd gone.

Of course, nobody ever did.

So, after about a week, Molly was sitting, curled up on one of the sofas on the ground floor, petting Toby with one hand and flicking aimlessly through the millions of channels on the TV with the other. Her new phone was balanced precariously next to her, waiting for her afternoon call from Jim, her old phone buried in her pillowcase upstairs, hidden away where nobody could find it.

At about this time every day Jim would ring her on her phone, they'd talk for no more than half an hour, and then they'd both go back to their daily business, whatever that was. Molly wouldn't leave the house. Jim told her everyday not to. She was used to it now.

So, when the front door opened with a click that day, Molly nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Dear me, Molly, don't be frightened. It's only me."

There was a time when that sing-song voice would have been the thing that frightened Molly most in the world, but now, somehow, she found it comforting. Pleasing, even, to know that he'd come back for her unexpectedly.

Jim threw his coat onto a coatstand by the door walked around to sit next to Molly on the sofa. She turned to him and smiled, trying to hide her ecstasy that he was back so early, that she'd actually be able to spend some time with him.

"I wasn't expecting you back." She said, nonchalantly. Jim grinned.

"Turn on the news, Molly. The local one. BBC One."

Molly's brow furrowed together. "Why? I thought we were-"

Something sparked behind Jim's eyes. "Do it."

Molly did.

There was a reporter, as always, her blonde bob over-styled and her lipstick much too bright for her face, reading the news from behind clear blue eyes. Molly frowned. Why was she watching the news? She had no interest in the outside world, not any more, not since she had Jim back. "Jim-"

"Shh, Molly," he interrupted, "just watch."

So she did. The reporter wrapped up a story about a newly-solved murder case in the city and moved on, the picture behind her changing to - Molly's thoughts stopped altogether, her mind refusing to believe what it was seeing.

To a picture of _her_?

It was. A picture from last year's christmas party of her smiling next to DI Lestrade, drink in hand, hair done up. Molly barely recognised herself.

"Jim, what's going on?"

Jim's smile curled up around his lips, snaking his arm around her shoulders. "This is what we've been waiting for, Molly. This is the attention we deserve."

Molly half listened to his soothing voice, half listened to the reporter explaining how police were looking for a missing girl by the name of Molly Hooper, who was once in connection with a dangerous mass-murderer.

Jim's voice was back in her ear again. "You see? Now they're sitting up and taking notice, we can have some fun of our own. We can kick off our plan, Molly, and it's all because of you." He almost growled the last word. Molly shivered, unable to take her eyes away from the screen.

They'd noticed? Sherlock, John, Irene, Lestrade - someone had noticed she'd gone? And they'd taken the time to phone the police?

Did this mean - Molly dared to let herself to think - did this mean they were ... _missing _her?

Jim purred in her ear once more. "Are you ready, my dear? Ready to kick up a fuss?"

Molly swallowed hard as the reporter moved on to the next story. Jim had promised her everything - respect, popularity... _everything. _And they were missing her now? Now they realised that she, Molly Hooper, was a valued member of the team and their group, that they needed her?

Molly smiled.

Ha. Now they'd see who she _really _was. Who she could be.

She turned to Jim. "Of course."


	12. Chapter 11

**HEY GUYS :D I'M BAAACK!  
Hahahaha :') Please don't hate me! I'm slap bang in the middle of my exams at the moment, and have been just finishing this off over weeks and weeks and weeks, little bit at a time between revision. So that's why it's taken so long :')  
Plus, this one's reaaaaaally long.  
Doesn't look like this is going to be finished before the new series now, unless I seriously get a move on, so I hope you lot don't mind AU! :'D  
Anyway, thanks again to my Beta, Elly, and to all of my reviewers :) I hope you all got the messages I sent? :)  
That's it for now, hope you enjoy the chapter, don't forget to review :D**

**Onwards!**

Chapter Eleven.

Molly slept well that night, her dreams clear and untouched by laughing Irene Adlers following her in the rain, free from doubts that what she was doing was the right path to take. Because finally, Jim was keeping his promise. He was putting their plan into action.

What it was, Molly wasn't quite sure yet. But, nonetheless, she was excited.

She arose from her dreamless sleep in the morning, pulled from the dark, comfortable world she'd rested in by the harsh ringing of her alarm clock. She forced herself to sit upright and hit the 'off' button on it, rubbing her eyes and trying to become fully conscious. Blinking rapidly, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the new morning light and check the time - 8:00.

Groaning a little, she swung her legs around and found her slippers with her feet, which were laid out at the side of her bed, ready to step into. She clicked her neck and faced the wall where she knew, behind it, Jim was doing exactly the same thing. Dragging himself out of bed like he used to when they stayed at his flat, clicking his wrists and each finger methodically before making his way to the bathroom. If she was very quiet, she could hear the faint splashing of water from his en-suite shower that every room had, or the low hum of the boiler as it kick-started into life.

Molly collapsed into a seated position on her bed once more and sighed. She wanted things to go back to the way they were; the all-night talking, waking up in the morning to Jim's adorable dishevelled morning hair, seeing him asleep, at his most vulnerable, and just the feeling of knowing that someone was there, with her, their arms around her as she dozed off. The last thing she'd know before she went to sleep was the smell of Jim's aftershave around her, falling into her dreams with a smile on her face because she knew that he'd be the first thing she'd see in the morning, and he'd greet her with just as much love as she felt for him.

But, of course, the man she'd known wasn't Jim. Or, rather, the man she lived with now wasn't Jim. Not _her _Jim. He was James Moriarty – although Molly couldn't bring herself to call him anything but 'Jim'.

There'd been a glimmer of her old boyfriend the night before, when they sat for hours on the couch, curled up together. Molly had lain with her head resting on Jim's chest as he ran his hand through her hair gently, flicking absentmindedly through the TV channels. But it still wasn't the same. The old Jim wouldn't have cared about the television, he'd have sat and talked to Molly all night long, fallen asleep with his arm around her. He was so caring and sweet and lovely – Molly sometimes found it hard to believe that he'd only ever been an act.

Glancing back to the wall, something caught Molly's eye on the floor, catching the morning light from the window on a shiny surface. She couldn't help but gasp as she recognized it, and immediately slid off the bed and bent down to pick it up.

She hadn't thought about her phone since the day before – an unfamiliar thing in her new surroundings. Every night, before she'd gone to sleep, she had checked it. Just for five minutes or less, just so she'd know if someone had tried to make contact. But the previous night, she hadn't. She'd been too caught up in her fluffy moment with Jim on the couch, too nostalgic over their old relationship and too excited about what their plan would bring that she hadn't even thought about her phone. She held it in her hand, straightening up, deciding whether or not to turn it on.

She _could, _of course, if for a little while, just to check if anyone had tried to phone or text her. Obviously, someone had noticed her absence; surely they'd try to contact her before notifying the police?  
Molly's fingers itched, wanting to switch it on, needing to see what they'd said, if anything at all.

But, then again, she didn't need them now. She was getting closer to Jim again, last night had proved that. They had each other. Who cared what the others thought?

Before she'd made a proper decision, she heard the next room's door open and footsteps padding towards her room. She panicked. Jim! She couldn't let him see she'd brought her old phone, he might take it away. She frantically stuffed it into her pillowcase, praying that it wouldn't fall to the floor again. Then she stood up, brushed herself down and headed to her own en-suite, trying to look natural as  
Jim pushed open her door without knocking or receiving invitation.

"Oh, good." He purred. "You're up. I was just checking – big day today, after all! Sorry, I won't interrupt you, you're obviously just getting into the shower. I'll see you downstairs, and I'll explain what I need you to do."

Molly just smiled. "Okay."

He grinned and left, the door clicking shut behind him. Molly let out the breath she'd been holding and walked into the bathroom.

That was close.

* * *

The plan was simple, in theory. Obviously, Jim had a way of talking that made anything sound simple. Just his voice was hypnotic and soothing, enough to convince Molly of anything he told , her part in his scheme really did seem simple. She didn't have to do anything too strenuous, after all.

So why was she shaking so badly as they glided along in the back of Jim's car?

He sat next to her, perfectly still, staring straight ahead. He didn't even seem to blink. Molly, on the other hand, couldn't keep still. She fidgeted and chewed her nails, trying to stop herself from shaking.

It wasn't long before Jim noticed. He laughed softly, glancing at her through the corner of his eye. "Calm _down, _Molly."

Molly locked her jaw and interlocked her fingers, trying to stay still, to calm her breathing. She could feel Jim still looking at her, even as she tried to concentrate on something, anything else. She caught Adam's eye in the rear view mirror; he was smiling, too.

Molly felt sick.

Suddenly, breaking the tense silence, Jim sighed heavily. "Listen," he began, turning to face her slightly, "you'll be fine. You haven't got to do much, Molly. You've just got to do it right. Just remember what I said. Do you remember?"

Molly stopped chewing her lip and glanced at Jim, still trying to concentrate on the back of the seat in front of her. "Be convincing." she recited quietly, her voice only a shadow of what it should have been. "Don't let him know the truth. Be innocent. Just… just do as you've said."

Jim smiled. "Good. Don't let anything slip, and only do what you've been told. Nothing else. Good girl." He reached forward and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Molly flinched; the effect was electric, like lightning from his touch. She turned to face him fully, wide-eyed. He was looking at her properly now.

"I trust you, Molly." He said quietly. "Do this for me… do this for us."

Molly swallowed and slowly nodded, not being able to speak. She couldn't take her eyes away, though, even after he'd turned away. He'd looked at her, truly looked at her, for the first time since… since back in her old flat, at least.

She could do this. She _had_to do this. She started to replay the plan in her head for the millionth time, deciding again exactly how she was going to do it. Detail, as Jim had said, was key.

Still lost in her thoughts, Molly didn't notice the car slow down. She did, however, notice when it jolted to harsh stop. Her breath caught in her throat as Adam drawled "We're here" from the driver's seat.

"Well, Molly." She could hear the grin in Jim's voice even as she stared at the floor. "I'll see you in a minute, then, shall I?"

She looked up at him. He was smiling. Molly swallowed again, her throat still dry. Jim's smile began to die and he pursed his lips.

"Molly. Get out. It's time."

Without another word, Molly did. She'd barely shut the car door behind her before it drove off, leaving her alone.

The wind was quick and cold, biting into her skin through her thin shirt. The hair that Jim had tucked behind her ear blew in front of her face, stray strands from her ponytail blocking her vision. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms as goosebumps rose on her skin – given the choice, she would have brought a coat. But the clothes were important, apparently. She had to look like she'd run away. Hence the rumpled, un-ironed shirt and the rip in her jeans, the untidy hair and the make-up free face.

She looked around, checking Adam had dropped her off in the right place. Of course he had. Molly didn't like to think what Jim would have done if he hadn't.

The police station was just a few roads away; Molly couldn't see it, but she knew it was there. She was on a quieter, more residential road, so as not to raise too much suspicion or attract too much attention, or, indeed, give their target too much chance to call for help. There were plenty of alleyways nearby here, it wasn't the most upmarket part of town – including, of course, the one she was to meet Jim in soon.

Brushing her hair away from her face, Molly stood and waited, still shaking just as much as before, if not more so. She knew he'd be here soon - Jim had done the research on him, and Jim was never wrong. It was all going to be fine. She knew exactly what to say, what to do, all she had to do was _be convincing. _And after the year she'd had of convincing everyone she was fine, Molly was sure she could do the opposite.

Her hands were still shaking, though. She was still so nervous, a horrible, empty feeling in her stomach about what she knew was going to happen. What she knew had to happen. Jim needed her to do this so that he could help her, he'd said. This was their plan.  
_  
You can do this, _she convinced herself repeatedly, trying to breathe slowly. _Do it for Jim. Do it for yourself. Show them who you are, that you're not afraid.  
_  
She went to check her phone for the time – Molly never wore a watch, it got in the way of her work – before realising that Jim had taken it off her in the car. No convincing runaway carried a brand-new phone around with them, after all. So, if something went wrong here, Molly was alone, with nobody to call for help.

Just as this disconcerting thought made her stomach churn, Molly saw him.

He turned into the road she was in, hands in pockets, collar up to shield him from the wind. He hadn't seen her. Not yet. She thought about Jim's instructions.  
_  
Attract his attention. Look panicked. Look scared, Molly, like you've just escaped from me.  
_  
After a deep breath, she shouted across the street. "Detective Inspector Lestrade!"

The sound of his own name made the man jolt out of his daydream, and his head snapped around to face her. She ran towards him. At first, his face was confused, his body guarded and ready to defend himself, but as he saw her and recognised her, he looked worried, his eyes searching her face.

"…Molly?"

Molly was breathing heavily, her heart pounding in her chest. She tried to disguise her nerves and fear as breathlessness from running, to use her shaking hands to her advantage. She could tell she looked terrified. Still, she felt like she was going to faint.

DI Lestrade looked a little panicked now, as he grabbed onto her shoulders to keep her upright. "Molly? Oh my God, Molly, are you alright? Where have you been?" There was worry in the kind man's eyes, a kind of worry that Molly had seen only three weeks ago in her lab. To think of how scared she'd been then, when they'd taken away her police protection. To remember how badly she'd thought she needed that safety net, that Jim would come back and do her harm. The very idea of it seemed laughable now.

Nonetheless, despite her fear, Lestrade hadn't stood up for her that day. He'd let that leech of a woman take away everything that Molly relied on without even thinking of the consequences.

Well, now was the time for him to face those consequences.

The confident, fiery feeling that Molly was getting more and more recently returned in the pit of her stomach as she remembered just why she was doing this. Her heartrate slowed, but she kept breathing heavily, trying to keep up her façade of being a scared runaway.

"Oh," she began, still panting, before reciting the exact words Jim had told her to say, "thank God I've found you! Please… _please_! You have to help me. He's coming… he's coming for me, Lestrade, and I can't run anymore-"

Lestrade actually looked scared now. The look in his eyes gave Molly a surprising thrill of pride.

"He? Molly, who are you talking about?"

Molly shot him what she hoped was an incredulous look, before continuing with her script. "_Him," _she stressed, _"_the one I've been running from, the one you're looking for – I told you he'd come after me, Lestrade, and now he has and I can't… I can't…"

Her breathing hitched and Molly forced tears to the back of her eyes. Even she was impressed with her performance. Lestrade, on the other hand, looked horrified.

"Wait there," he said quickly, before Molly could continue, rummaging through his pockets, "I'll ring for help-"

"No!" The word came out a little too quickly, startling Lestrade. He looked at her, wide-eyed. Molly's new-found confidence took a knock, real panic rising in her chest; she couldn't let him ring for help. Jim had specifically said. And she couldn't fail. She couldn't let him down.

But there was no script for this situation. Molly started shaking again, her eyes darting across Lestrade's face as she thought desperately what to say.

Just as he was about to speak again, Molly cut in, blurting out the first thing she could think of.

"You don't understand!" She hissed, looking around for effect. "He's coming, Lestrade, he's coming _now! _We haven't got time for back up, you need to help me now! He's coming, I know he is! I've been right about this before – he took me, I told you he would. But I couldn't… I ran away, I tried to get away - but I know he's chasing me, he'll be here soon, I know it! You need to help me, please… _please_help me, Lestrade. Don't leave me. I can't go back to him. Not again." Molly forced the tears back to her eyes, hoping she looked afraid.

Apparently, she did. After biting his lip and looking around, Lestrade grasped her shoulders again.

"Okay, okay, don't panic. You're safe now. What do you need me to do?"

Bingo. Molly had to stop herself from smiling.

"Come with me, we have to hide." She said quickly, grabbing hold of his hand and looking around as if she were looking for Jim, but actually looking for anyone who might be suspicious. However, the street was deserted except for them.

So Molly ran.

Lestrade ran too, without protest, believing Molly that they had to hide. There was no doubt about it now, Molly felt pride. She'd nearly done it. All she had to do now was lead him to Jim.

After running through the streets for no more than five minutes, Molly dragged Lestrade into the alleyway where she knew that Jim and Adam would be waiting, along with some more of Jim's men. Who they were or how many there were, Molly didn't know; all she knew was that they were there to 'take care' of Lestrade once she'd led him there. She didn't like to think exactly what that meant.

There were boxes at the end of the back-alley, up against a set of metal stairs leading up the side of a building. Molly collapsed onto one, feigning exhaustion. She could barely even hear the constant hum of cars from the high street anymore, they were so far away from it, lost in the maze of residential roads where the grotty student flats were, years old, waiting to be demolished on either side of her.  
The amount of times Adam had drove here today, shown her the route… but she hadn't forgot it.

Molly was so full of relief that she nearly forgot about Lestrade altogether.

"Now, let me phone for help. We'll get you out of here."

Molly turned to him and reacted as quick as she could with the first thing that came to mind; she knocked the phone out of his hand. "Not yet," she stressed, "wait until it's safe."

Lestrade frowned now, and for the first time he didn't look convinced. It didn't matter now, though, Jim would be here any second. "Molly, are you sure you're okay?"

She looked at him straight in the eyes, ready to scowl and fight back - and instantly wished she hadn't.

The tired blue eyes didn't look suspicious, they just looked confused, genuinely worried, like he actually cared. Molly chewed her lip. This was _Lestrade. _The kind detective who had to put up with Sherlock on a daily basis, who used to bring her coffee in the morning just as an excuse to make sure she was okay.

What the hell was she doing?

The now-familiar huge black car pulled up at the top of the road, blocking Molly and Lestrade's exit. Lestrade leapt to his feet, but Molly stayed put. He wasn't armed, she knew. He never was after work. Jim had found that out.

His voice cut through the silence in the alley, high and shrill and sing-song, yet terrifying in its own right.

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector! How nice of you to join us."

Lestrade stood, shoulders wide, ready for a fight, it seemed. Jim looked at ease, swaggering down the alley flanked by two men Molly didn't know. Adam leaned on the car at the top, keeping lookout, his bright blue eyes behind dark black glasses.

Lestrade began to back away, keeping Molly behind him. He was protecting her, even now. Molly bit her lip so hard it bled, trying to remind herself why she was doing this.

"Moriarty." He grumbled. Jim grinned, his eyes dark.

"That's me!" He shouted, arms wide, still advancing. "Well done, sir. What a fine addition to the Metropolitan Police you _are. _Although, I wouldn't bother protecting _her,_it's not her that I want."

Molly's stomach disappeared and she looked at her feet. She heard Lestrade's incredulous "What?", Jim's shrill giggle, and the shuffle as Lestrade wheeled to face her. But she couldn't look at him. Not now.

"I know," Jim sang, "didn't she do well?"

"Molly?" Lestrade whispered, breathless. Molly didn't look up. She knew the others were still advancing. She knew that soon, it would be over.

"No… Molly, you didn't… he hasn't…"

"Lucky, wasn't it." That was Jim. "That you pushed Molly away so much that she agreed to help me. After all, without her, this wouldn't have worked. It's not like you'd follow _me _down a derelict alleyway, completely free of other people, where nobody could hear you scream, after all."

She knew that Lestrade was still looking at her, because when she heard the crack of wood against skull, there was no sound of resistance. He hadn't even seen it coming. There was a thud as he hit the floor, rendered unconscious, and Molly couldn't help but look up.

There he was, face down, sprawled in front of her like he'd just been switched off, the back of his head beginning to bleed. She couldn't look away, as much as she tried.

"Deal with him," Jim said curtly to his men, his voice commanding, not nearly as charismatic as moments before.

Molly's head was spinning a little, unable to pull her eyes away from the man on the floor in front of her. She might as well have dealt the blow. It was her fault.

Just a moment ago he'd been standing, ready for a fight. And now… he was lifeless. Useless.

A hand settled on her shoulder, but Molly didn't react. She thought she heard Jim sing her name, but she couldn't stop looking at Lestrade. He was innocent in all of this… how was this going to help her?

Above her, Jim began tutting, before sitting on the box next to her.

"Molly."

She still didn't react; it was like she was hypnotised, mesmerised, a sense of horror gripping her attention.

"Look at me, Molly."

At least, she thought it was a sense of horror. But, it would have been a lie to say there wasn't something else there, in the back of her mind. Some kind of morbid fascination… it was amazing, after all, how the human body could become so suddenly incapacitated.

"_Molly._" Jim stressed, his hand suddenly creeping under her jawline and gently pulling her head to face him. He had a habit of doing that. Soon enough, Molly had nowhere to look but Jim's eyes, and still nothing to say.

Then, Jim did something she didn't expect. He smiled.

And in that moment, it was as if Jim was back. _The_ Jim. _Her _Jim. It was just a shadow, just a fleeting second, but it was there. That genuine and – Molly let herself dare – caring smile, that could only belong to her beautiful, awkward, perfect IT technician.

All at once, she forgot about Lestrade. She was encapsulated by him again, hanging on his words.

"You were _wonderful, _my darling." He crooned, his hand still gently laying on her cheek. He was scanning her face, Molly could see – looking at her in a way she'd longed to be looked at for so long; like he was _really _looking at her. And he didn't look away. It was a while before his eyes fluttered back to meet Molly's, his smile spreading like water across his face once more. She still couldn't speak. His hand was burning, fiery against her cheek.

He tilted his head forward and leaned closer, looking into Molly's eyes through his eyelashes. Molly's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't think of anything but him – all thoughts of Lestrade, of the his injuries and her guilt, all thoughts of Sherlock and Irene and John were gone from her head, leaving it filled with the way Jim's soft fingertips lay on her jawline and the way his mouth was quirking up and the way his eyes seemed to be looking much deeper than the surface, into her own eyes, down her face, to her lips…

It was then that his fingers fell away and he stood, leaving Molly to fall forward slightly from the anticipation, blinking rapidly. She looked up to where he stood, facing the wall opposite. His voice told her that Moriarty was back, and that Jim had disappeared once more.

"Another couple of shows like that, dear, and we'll be laughing." He turned to look at her over his shoulder and smiled again. "Don't let me down. Do this for me. Do this for _us._"

And with that, he walked away, back down the alleyway to where Adam was waiting. Molly knew that she should have been following, but she couldn't bring herself to move.

The way he'd looked at her, the way he'd smiled… she'd come so close to _kissing _him again…

Not even thinking of Lestrade, Molly stood on shaky legs, knowing full well that in the morning, she'd do whatever Jim asked, just so long as she got to share another moment like that with him again.  
_  
For us. _


	13. Chapter 12

**Bloody hell. I apologise at the beginning of every chapter.  
Oh well, I _am_ sorry. Really, really sorry. Especially since this is only _technically _half a chapter - but I felt so bad leaving everything unupdated for so long that I thought I'd better give you something! So that's another thing to be sorry about - how terribly short this is. Sorry.  
I hope that you'll all stick with me as this story will get finished, I'm determined, and I'm actually still excited about the plot.**

**Thankyou so much to anyone still out there, and I promise I'll try and be quicker next time!  
(And also, thanks to Elly, whose idea it was to put this up in the first place xD)  
Much love. :)**

Chapter Twelve

Molly looked down at her phone.

"Are you sure this will work?"

Jim sighed heavily again, stopping his pacing to face where she was sitting at the table. "_Yes._" He stressed. "Now will you please stop fretting?"

Molly would have laughed if Jim hadn't been there. 'Stop fretting'? After what had happened to Lestrade yesterday, she didn't really see how she could. She didn't even know where he was now, how he was or what they'd done to him since she'd seen him last. But, of course, she didn't like to think about that.

She bit her lip and stroked the surface of the phone nervously. "I'm not sure, Jim… are you certain he'll come?"

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously taking a great effort to stay calm. Molly felt a twinge of guilt as he sighed again, turning to face her properly. Opposite her, his feet balanced on another chair, leisurely lounging whilst pretending not to listen, Adam snorted. Molly gave him the coldest look she could muster, but he wasn't even looking.

"If you ring him, Molly, he _will _come." Jim stressed. "He won't come alone, of course, but he'll come." He glanced at Adam and scowled. "Get your feet off my furniture."

Adam instantly swung his legs around until both feet were on the floor, his grin gone. "Sorry, sir." He muttered.

Molly tentatively picked up the phone and, taking a deep breath, typed in the number scrawled on a piece of paper in front of her. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she pressed the green button on the screen. She set the device on loudspeaker so the other occupants of the room could hear, and held it near her mouth.

It rang four times before someone picked up - Molly was still surprised that Jim and Adam had even been able to get this direct number. Both men were watching her intently now.

"…Hello?" A man began at the other end. Molly spoke not much louder than a whisper.

"Mr. Holmes?"

The man coughed. "Who is this?"

Molly looked to Jim, who nodded. "It's Molly, sir. Molly Hooper. We met two weeks ago… at the morgue?"

There was a long pause; Molly could barely even hear him breath at the other end of the line. Molly looked to Jim again, panic in her eyes, but he didn't see – he was watching the phone with such concentration and fascination that Molly doubted if Sherlock Holmes himself burst through the door behind him he'd notice.

Finally, there was a reply. "You're the missing girl." It was a statement, not a question. "I remember you."

Molly tried not to let her voice shake.

"Yes, sir. I've… run into a bit of trouble, you see-"

"Trouble? What kind of trouble? And why are you calling me? How did you even _get _this number?" His voice was clipped and demanding, and Molly's earlier doubts returned. She'd met this man before, she knew a fair bit about him – from what she knew, he was clever… even more so, perhaps than his brother.

Who was Molly Hooper to try and get one over on Mycroft Holmes?

She swallowed. "…Financial trouble." She said quietly.

Mycroft scoffed. "Oh?"

"Listen, Mr. Holmes… I've run into something I can't get out of… I heard that you offer money to people – I mean, people _close _to Sherlock –"

"Miss. Hooper," he interjected, "with all due respect, I hardly think you qualify as being _close _to my brother."

Jim was looking at her now, Molly could feel it. She, however, couldn't take her eyes off the phone.

_What had he just said?_

Her jaw locked and her nostrils flared, trying to stop herself from yelling down the phone. 'Not close'? She worked with him… she saw him practically every day… how dare this man judge her like that?

"We're closer than you'd think."

She could hear the smile in Mycroft's voice. "No, you're not. I've enough surveillance on him to prove that."

That felt like a stone in Molly's stomach. "Fine. But we can be. Please, Mycroft, I need this money – you're my last shot."

"What's it for, Molly?"

Molly swallowed, flicking her hair from her eyes. "Don't ask questions, please. Just… will you help me, or not?"

Again, another lengthy pause. Molly could tell Mycroft was thinking all of this over in the same way his brother would in this situation. Jim was leaning heavily on the table, now, watching Molly intently, waiting for a reply – her heartbeat quickened, trying to focus not on Jim's staring eyes, but on the phone in her hand. Adam, on the other hand, had turned away, and was choosing instead to observe Molly from the corner of his eye, as if he weren't supposed to be watching at all.

"This isn't the girl I met at the morgue the other day, Miss. Hooper."

Molly's brow furrowed. "Yes-"

"No. There's something more going on here." He paused again. "Miss Hooper, if you think I don't know that our dear friend Mr. Moriarty is pulling your strings here, then you've fatally underestimated me."

Molly's eyes grew wide, her throat went dry, and despite her best efforts, she stuttered her next words.

"I – I don't know what you're talking about."

Mycroft hummed.

The first eyes Molly met were Adam's – he looked just as panicked as she did, looking, for once, every bit as young as he was. He interlocked his fingers and looked to his knees as Molly slowly turned to face where Jim was standing.

At least, where he had been standing. He was now crouching over the table, furiously scribbling something down on a post-it. Soon enough, he pushed the paper towards her. It took Molly a few seconds to work out what it was, as Adam tried to read the slanted handwriting upside down. Looking up, she saw him looking at her, chewing the inside of his cheek.

It was a script.

"Molly?"

She'd all but forgotten Mycroft was there. Reading the first line, Molly began to complete the instructions on the sheet and read the choreographed words.

She coughed. "... I said... I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

Mycroft stifled a laugh. "Of course not. Molly, do you really think I'm stupid?"

Molly counted to five in her head, whilst the note just said 'pause'. Deciding she'd waited long enough, Molly delivered her next line.

"Mycroft... you don't understand."

"I think I understand perfectly-"

She dropped her voice to a whisper. "He's after Sherlock, Mycroft. I'm trying to help you, can't you see that?"

The silence at the other end of the line was thick. She could almost hear Mycroft's mind working, deciding whether or not to believe her. Molly decided to continue.

"I don't think he can hear us, this is my phone-"

"Why lie at the start?"

"I don't know who's listening. But... I've got to try, haven't I?"

There was another pause, before Mycroft lowered his voice, too. "Meet me at 1'o clock. There'll be a car waiting for you. Do you have a pen?"

Molly nodded, then, realising he couldn't see her, let out a shaky "Yes." She took down the address he reeled off and then, without any parting words, Mycroft hung up the phone. Molly had to stop herself from throwing the mobile over the other side of the room in panic and stress.

Adam was still watching her intently, a crease between his eyebrows. Slowly, Molly looked to Jim. And, for the second time in two days, his reaction surprised her.

He was smiling again. "Perfect."

Molly couldn't help but frown. "But – Jim, didn't you hear him? He knows you were with me–"

Jims eyes flashed, his grin faltering, and Molly's voice died. "Of course I heard him, Molly. But I quite expected that."

"You did?"

Jim's smile returned. "Of course. You see, Molly, that's the trick to dealing with the Holmes brothers – you just have to stay one step ahead. Use their own weaknesses against them." There was a distant look in his eyes, as if he weren't concentrating on anything in the room at all.

"Then why... Jim, I panicked – if you knew, why didn't you say? Why didn't you tell me to use Sherlock at the start-"

"Don't question me, Molly." Jim's eyes were cold, his fists clenched around the end of the table. Molly had barely noticed him move, but he was leaning towards her, his knuckles white and his jaw locked. Looking to the table, and releasing his grip on it, he quickly straightened himself up and brushed himself down as if nothing had happened. "I have things to do before one o'clock, anyway – Adam will sort you out until then."

He turned and walked away, and Molly looked to Adam, who – once again – looked every bit as surprised – and scared - as she was. He swallowed let out a low whistle.

"Well then, that was lucky."

Molly frowned. "Excuse me?"

Adam smiled. "Just his reaction – he didn't seem… I mean, he didn't... I thought he'd... nothing. It doesn't matter. Let's get you kitted out, shall we? We've only got an hour, after all."

* * *

What exactly Adam meant by 'kitted out', Molly didn't know at the time. Apparently, it involved a tiny tracker, placed strategically in her underwear – "He isn't going to look there, is he?" – and literally nothing else.

Molly had been expecting James Bond-style gadgets. No such luck.

By twelve o'clock, Molly found herself back in the kitchen, once again sitting opposite Adam who was carefully picking at his nails. When Jim joined them minutes later, the young man stopped and sat up much straighter, his eyes immediately watching Jim. Molly eyed him curiously.

Before she could come to any conclusions about why Adam was quite so careful around Jim, however, Jim leaned on the table and started speaking.

"Tony will be here soon, Molly. He's going to give you a lift to where you're meeting Mycroft… well, close to where you're meeting Mycroft, anyway."

Molly looked up and frowned.

"…Aren't you taking me?"

A small smile spread on Jim's lips. "We'll catch up, don't worry." The smile grew. "You're vital to this, Molly. You have to make sure he doesn't know you're bugged – at least, until we get there."

Molly swallowed and bit her lip, but nodded nonetheless. There was a ring of the doorbell and Jim straightened up.

"Well then, come on. I'll walk you out."

Molly stood and walked with Jim to the front door, still not entirely sure that this was even going to work, or, of course, what exactly was going to happen when Jim and Adam did 'catch up' with her. They didn't speak at all as they walked through the house.

They stopped at the front door, Jim's hand catching Molly's as she reached for the handle. She couldn't help her breath catching in her throat slightly as he held her hand in both of his. Her delicate fingers seemed so small in comparison – his hands weren't particularly large, she'd never really thought about them before, but now she couldn't think about much else. They enveloped hers, and it took her a good few seconds to pluck up the courage to meet Jim's eyes.

He was smiling again; a small, even nervous-looking smile playing with the edge of his lips. Molly forgot how to breathe.

"You'll be wonderful, I know it." He said quietly, before leaning across and planting a soft kiss on her cheek. Molly felt herself blush crimson, but she found herself unable to say anything as he opened the door and ushered her out into the street where a surly-looking middle-aged man was waiting next to the now familiar blacked-out car.

Without a word, the man opened the door of the car for her, and Molly silently climbed in, still stunned from the moment in the doorway. That was genuine affection, she realised, genuine…love.

"Ready?" The man in the front interrupted her thoughts. She nodded so that he could see her in the rear view mirror, as he started the car.


	14. Chapter 13

**HEY GUYS :3  
I'm not going to patronise you with apologies. You know I'm unreliable. If there's anyone still reading I love you very, very, very much 3 Here's an extra-long chapter for you - that's why it took so long, I got carried away x)  
I should explain why the prologue's been taken down - I've entered it for an original writing competition (and changed the names, obv) and so I didn't want the judges to think I was plagiarizing my own work :') When the competition's over, it'll be back up... hopefully :')  
Oh and also this hasn't been Beta-ed... well, most of it had but there's bits... I actually will apologise for this. I'm too damn impatient for my own good, but I'm really excited that I've finished this chapter!  
Anyway, I'll shut up now - hope you enjoy!  
xx**

Chapter Thirteen

Tony - as was the man's name - kicked her out about two streets away from where Mycroft had agreed to meet her. It wasn't a far walk, but still Molly found herself once again aimlessly wishing that she'd brought a jacket. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans, trying to coax some warmth into them.

It wasn't working.

She walked quickly, the wind rushing through her ears serving as a distraction to the millions of thoughts circling in her head. The scene in the doorway played out countless times, the echo of Jim's voice lingered in her head, the ghost of his touch still warming her cold cheek. She couldn't understand… she dared not let herself believe that what she'd seen was genuine… that maybe, just maybe, he was finally reverting back to his old self, his _true _self, and returning her feelings.

When she arrived at her destination, she thankfully didn't have time to think about Jim, what had happened, or indeed, what was going to happen, as there was already a long, sleek, silver car waiting for her, a tight-lipped blonde woman holding a Blackberry standing next to it.

Molly advanced, turning her mind to the task at hand. She couldn't dwell on could-bes and never-wheres now – she had a job to do. A job which could bring her closer to Jim anyway, to prove once and for all that she was better than they'd labelled her, that she wasn't afraid of – how had Irene put it? – climbing up the ladder. Molly smiled inwardly.

The woman called out to her. "Molly Hooper?"

Molly just nodded. The woman's face contorted in what Molly thought was meant to be a smile.

"Step this way."

She climbed into the passenger seat of the car, but before Molly could make to follow suit, a tall, widely built bald man wearing a suit and sunglasses stepped out of the driver's side. Molly couldn't see who was in the back of the car, the windows were blacked out – something that she was used to now.

The man walked towards Molly with an air of dominance; he was obviously used to being in charge. And, from the size of him, Molly doubted that many people ever stood up to him. He was tall and broad, his chest barely contained in the ill-fitting suit he was wearing – perhaps, Molly thought, he wore suits a size too small just to make him look even more intimidating. His head was bald, his eyes obscured behind dark black glasses. He wore a grimace on his face, obviously trying to look expressionless. A black, wireless earpiece twisted around his right ear.

Just the sight of him made Molly want to turn and run away at first, until she remembered who she was doing this all for. She needed to do this for Jim – for them both, for the love Molly knew was bubbling under Jim's intimidating and collected demeanour, the love Molly knew she had to coax out of him. She was close, too. She could feel it.

So she grinned at the man as he reached her, despite the fact he made no effort to greet her. Instead, he grunted in a way which vaguely resembled "Arms out, please."

Molly instantly realised what he meant. "Excuse me?"

The man stared at her; Molly could imagine his fierce glare even behind the glasses. He obviously wasn't in the mood for repeating himself.

Reluctantly, Molly raised her arms. Almost at once, the man began to frisk her, and Molly became hyper-aware of the tracker hidden on her chest which the man was sure to find soon. He patted down her arms, down her sides and across her waist – Molly tried to stop her breath from hitching as the tracker slid very slightly out of place, the cold metal now exposed to her bare skin. The man was otherwise occupied, however, too busy to notice Molly's change in facial expression. Still, she didn't breathe until he stopped and stood back to his full height.

Molly thanked whoever was listening as he nodded curtly and gestured to the rear door of the car, making his own way back to the driver's seat. He heart was pounding relentlessly; she walked slowly and deliberately, her breathing shallow, feeling like the combination of her hammering of her heart and her breathing would knock the tracker further out of place. She didn't relax until she was seated on the cold black leather of the car, the expensive smell of polish and overall newness filling her nostrils. She didn't dare put her seatbelt on, though – the thought of it passing over directly where the tracker was and knocking it further out of place scared her too much.

"Miss Hooper."

Molly had been so preoccupied with making sure her tracker didn't fall out of place, she'd forgotten why she was wearing one at all. She jumped at the cold drawl of Mycroft Holmes' voice, wheeling around to face him, looking like a rabbit in headlights. He didn't so much as smile.

Molly swallowed, trying to moisten her throat, the gravity of what she was doing falling back on her shoulders and knocking the air out of her. "Mr. Holmes." She tried to smile. He didn't – he just tapped the driver's seat in front of him, a silent signal for the car to start moving.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an _eternity, _the only sound the low rumbling of the engine. Molly didn't know where they were going, but soon enough they were in the outskirts of the city, as she saw less and less people out of the window. She took this time to watch Mycroft.

He lounged next to her with a false ease, offering no explanation as to what was going on. His legs were crossed, he was looking at her coolly from the corner of his eye. But he was tense, Molly could tell – his hands were in fists, one closed over the handle of the umbrella which leant on the seat, his knuckles white. His jaw was set, his back was straight, giving himself an aura of both authority and restlessness, the jutting of his chin proving that he considered himself the superior in the car, the slight twitch of his fingers revealing that there really was something he wanted to do, somewhere else he'd rather be.

Molly surprised herself. Apparently Jim and Sherlock had been rubbing off on her.

"When you're done analysing me," Mycroft started, still only looking at Molly from the corner of his eye, "would you like to tell me what you're doing here?"

Molly's brow furrowed a little, a little taken aback. "You asked me to come-"

"_You_ called _me._" Mycroft reminded her, turning his head to face her for the first time. This close, Molly could see the resemblance to his younger brother – it wasn't obvious, but it was there. His eyes were duller, but the same calculating intelligence shone behind them. His hairline was receding, but Molly could see where he'd combed and flattened what was left, taming the curls that his brother was too preoccupied to deal with. This did more than just unnerve Molly – it made her sick, unable to stop herself picturing Sherlock in her mind for the first time in weeks, in all his unadulterated perfection. The Sherlock she'd known before Irene had arrived and messed everything up, the Sherlock her stubborn heart still secretly yearned for.

The Sherlock Jim was trying to kill… The Sherlock Mycroft was here to protect.

Molly's head spun.

_What the hell am I doing?_

"I thought I should warn you," Molly said quietly, the earlier confidence in her voice failing her, "about Sherlock. About how… Moriarty is after him." There was no emotion in her words. She felt sick.

Mycroft laughed through his nose, his face expressionless, no longer facing Molly. "Say that with a little more conviction and I might just believe you, Miss. Hooper."

His words stabbed Molly in an unusually familiar way. He made her feel ridiculous – stupid, even. Like a small child in a headmaster's office. For a moment, she was lost for words, drowning, questioning why she was even there.

And then she realised why the feeling was so familiar.

Sherlock had always treated her in that way. It was _Sherlock _who had always made her feel two inches tall in his presence, belittling her and demeaning her for his own pleasure. Because _he _was always the best in the room. Nobody was superior to Sherlock Holmes. Everybody else didn't count when he was around – least of all _little Molly Hooper._

Jim was different. He made her feel needed. She heard his whisper in her ear again, nothing but a trace from hours before.

_"You'll be wonderful. I know it."_

That was all the reminder she needed as to why she was there. The defiance crept back into her voice.

"I mean it. If you don't want my help, Mr. Holmes, throw me out now."

Mycroft's eyes flickered to Molly. This time, a small line formed between his eyebrows as they pulled together. The confusion was spread across his face.

"Help? What do you intend to do, Miss Hooper?"

Molly didn't know how long she had to keep him talking for, she just knew it had to be long enough so that they were no longer in an inhabited area of the outskirts of the city. So she gritted her teeth and made something up.

"I can go back to Jim. I can find out what he's up to… and tell you."

Mycroft looked back out of his window, lifting his hand up to chew on a nail. The sight took Molly by surprise – the almighty Mycroft Holmes, chewing his nails in deliberation. Had she actually got to him?

"Clarify what you mean by '_after Sherlock'_, Miss. Hooper." He still didn't look at her, but his hand returned to his lap.

Molly tried to remain in character – the character, of course, being the scared runaway who was kidnapped by her maniac ex-boyfriend. Her voice stayed the right side of timid, trying to genuinely sound like she was worried for Sherlock's safety.

"Do I have to spell it out? He wants him _dead, _Mycroft."

Mycroft chewed his lip. There was an obvious conflict shown in the expression on his face between the rational side of him that wanted to throw Molly out, knowing that she was lying, and the emotional side of him that niggled in the back of his brain asking _what if she's telling the truth?_, the brotherly side that wanted nothing more than to protect his family from harm.

"He's already got Lestrade."

It became clear all too soon that that was the exact wrong thing to say. Mycroft turned to face her, one eyebrow raised.

"Then how did you escape? Why did you leave him behind?"

Molly glanced out of the window, her mouth hanging agape as she searched for something to say. They were in a run-down district now, the type of place Molly wouldn't dare go to alone day or night, where people had guns as nothing more than a safety net. All the windows were boarded up or smashed, graffiti coated most of the brickwork – it was clear that nobody had lived in these houses for a long, long time.

That meant only one thing – Molly was safe. They could stop soon. Jim would be here. This could all be over.

Dusk was beginning to fall, the fading light casting eerie shadows on the worn-down buildings, giving the look of some kind of haunted fairytale. Mycroft coughed, returning Molly to the present and reminding her of the question.

"I…" Words failed her. "I had to be quick… Jim would have caught us-"

"Jim?" Mycroft cut her off, the conflict in his expression fading, leaving only suspicion.

"Moriarty, I mean." Molly's palms began sweating.

"Bit of a friendly term, isn't it, Miss Hooper? Am I to assume you are on a first-name basis with your kidnapper?"

Unable to take the intensity of his glare much longer, Molly dropped her head to look at her lap, letting her hair fall across her face and trying frantically to think of a way to backtrack across her mistake.

Mycroft sighed next to her. Molly didn't look up.

He leaned forward, clasping the edge of the seat in front of him. His voice was forceful, emanating power, deeper than it had been during their conversation.

"Stop."

The silence was deafening as the engine died and Mycroft exhaled slowly. Carefully and deliberately, he began to pull off his gloves, tutting slightly and shaking his head. Molly raised her head ever so slightly, watching him in the rear view mirror through her hair – although, as she soon found out, she wasn't the only one watching him in that mirror.

The driver – Molly still didn't know his name – was waiting, his eyes fixed on Mycroft as the man folded his gloves and slid them into his inside pocket. His hand lingered inside. Then, without lifting his head, he raised his eyes to meet the driver's and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

But Molly noticed it. And so did the driver.

He too, reached inside his jacket, fiddling with something in the inner pocket before sliding his hand out. What she saw in his hand made Molly's breathing stop, as she became aware of Mycroft watching her intently, one eyebrow raised.

"Miss Hooper," he crooned, tilting his chin upwards in a patronizing manner, "where is he?"

The driver clicked the barrel of the gun he was cradling, bringing it up to eye level and carefully inspecting it. The woman next to him didn't even seem to have noticed – she continued to tap away on her Blackberry, seemingly oblivious to it all.

"Where is who, Mr. Holmes?"

She'd barely finished the question before he let out a laugh – short, sharp, mocking, sounding more like a bark than an expression of joy. Then, he quickly turned to her, a smile still playing with his eyes like the whole thing amused him extensively, but a snarl forming on his lips and his nostrils flared. The concerned brother had all but gone – he didn't believe her, that was clear. Not anymore, not even a little bit.

Molly didn't think she'd ever seen anyone so intimidating in her life.

"Did you think you could play games with me, Miss. Hooper?" He almost whispered, his voice sending shivers through Molly. It was quite clear that nobody ever played games with Mycroft Holmes – and anyone who dared try never, ever won.

Just like Sherlock. Just like Jim.

Jim who'd be here soon, who'd save her from all of this. It wouldn't be long now.

The shaking in her hands stopped, and she raised her chin slowly and defiantly, trying to match Mycroft's earlier intimidating face. She'd been wrong – Mycroft wasn't nearly the most intimidating man Molly had ever seen. After all, she was _living _with Jim Moriarty.

"I really don't know who you mean, _Mr. Holmes_." She accented, trying to maintain the innocence in her eyes but suddenly finding it all too difficult – everybody in the car knew exactly what was going on, the question was, who was going to break first?

The smile that glittered in Mycroft's eyes spread slightly to his mouth, the ends curving up slightly, apparently despite his best efforts. It was true, he found this all hilarious, he thought it was a game, and the fact that Molly was now trying to play along just made it all the more amusing. He found the idea of little Molly Hooper trying to get one over on him absolutely _hysterical._

"Listen, Molly. It hasn't worked. Your dear friend Mr. Moriarty hasn't planned this out nearly as well as he could have – he seems to have failed to recognise that we wouldn't leave you with a way to contact him, to tell him where you are. Where were you planning on leading us, hmm? Because he isn't here, Miss. Hooper. Nobody's here to protect you now."

Molly swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about." She repeated.

Mycroft snapped.

Anger flared in his eyes, his cool demeanour slipping. The driver clicked his gun, but the two passengers in the front seats seemed otherwise oblivious to the change in his behaviour. For the first time in a while, Molly felt afraid.

She tried to look away, to look out of the window and search for the headlights that she knew _had _to be here soon. But she was stopped by a forceful hand, grabbing her chin and turning her around. Mycroft forced her to look at him straight in the eye, a wild anger in them that seemed more reminiscent of Jim than Sherlock, even though the rest of his face was cool and calm. The driver was still watching them silently in rear view mirror as Molly tried to shake herself free. She could barely move, though, held firm by Mycroft's strong hands.

His voice was the same as it had always been; chillingly quiet and slow, drawling and cold and heavy with implied threat. The only indication of his lack of patience was the burning in his eyes and the bruises forming around Molly's chin. "Tell me, Molly, where is he? Because if you've brought me all this way just to serve as a distraction whilst he gets to my brother, my people will know. And I swear to you, Molly, if that's the case, Mr. Moriarty won't be the only one who'll be wishing he was never born."

Mycroft dropped her jaw forcefully and turned back to facing the driver's seat, obviously realising what he was doing and catching himself off guard. Instantly, however, he pretended as if nothing had happened, taking a deep breath and picking at his fingernails. Molly's heart raced, praying that Jim would arrive soon and take her away.

"No?" Mycroft asked quietly. "Nothing to say?"

A dry sob escaped her lips – she couldn't help it. Mycroft's laugh in response was harsh, cold and unforgiving, as he slid his eyes to look at her once again and froze.

He seemed to be looking at her waist… Molly looked down, her stomach disappearing.

The tracker was sitting on her lap, it's wire trailing up her shirt. As she'd been flung back against the seat, it must have fell out of position, and in all the panic Molly hadn't even noticed.

Mycroft moved like lightning, reaching across and snapping the tracker from it's wire, regarding Molly with that same mad look in his eyes and holding it up to her face.

In that moment, Molly was certain she was going to die at the hands of Mycroft Holmes. Jim wasn't here – couldn't be here, now the tracker was dead - and the driver had a gun.

The silence of the night was only broken by Mycroft's slow, mocking voice. The amusement in it failed to reach his expression.

"Well, well, well – what do we have-"

He didn't even finish the sentence, and the world seemed to explode.

Time slowed down, and nobody else seemed to have reacted but Molly. The first thing she noticed was the glass smashing; a million tiny shards flying into the car, and Molly barely had the time to shut her eyes. The noise, too – a bang so loud she thought her ears might have spilt, the floor beneath her might have been cracking open. There was screaming, coming from somewhere – or was that coming from her? Men's voices filled the air, shouting, she thought – she vaguely registered the woman in front of her flinging her Blackberry aside and reaching across, trying to grab the gun from the driver's limp grasp-

And that was when Molly realised what had happened, when she noticed the driver. And even despite the explosion, the shouting and the blood dripping from a cut on her head, the first coherent thought Molly had was _Thank God._

His eyes could have been made of glass, they were so blank and clear – Molly was sure she could have seen her own reflection in them if she looked hard enough. He was looking at her, too – or, he had been, his eyes still fixed on the rear view mirror, watching the conversation that seemed to have finished years ago. She couldn't take her eyes away from his, and only noticed the cause of his death when a single trail of slick, deep red liquid leaked its way around his eyebrow and into his right eye – of course, he couldn't blink it away. It kept slipping down his face like a tear.

It was then, and only then, that Molly saw the gunshot in the middle of his head. Open, ugly and bleeding – and all she could think in the moment was what a hell of a good shot it was.

The woman in front wasn't scrambling for the gun anymore, she, too, was limp and lifeless, her own wound hidden from Molly's view of the back of her head, lolling on the headrest. Whether she was dead or not, Molly couldn't tell, but her Blackberry lay forgotten on the floor in front of her seat, surrounded in flecks of broken glass. That left only Mycroft.

_Mycroft!_

Molly had nearly forgotten about him, it had all happened so fast. The man himself was bleeding from numerous cuts scattered across his face, and he, too, was only just reacting to the situation. It seemed that years of office-job laziness had seeped in, dampening his ex-agent lightning reactions. But now, he was reaching forward into the seat in front of him, where the dead driver was slumped, the gun still in his lap –

"No!"

Molly did the only thing she could. She flung herself at Mycroft, catching him off guard and stopping him from reaching forward. Obviously, she was nothing against all 6 foot of him, but she had the element of surprise and his shoulder connected with the car door with a dislocated crack, his head with the window with yet another smash.

But he wasn't out. Not yet. Bleeding heavily from the head, but not unconscious.

Molly was panicking now. She couldn't let him get the gun – if he did, he'd probably kill her. He raised himself back upright slowly as Molly backed away as far as she could, frantically pulling at the car door handle. It kept clicking, but the door didn't budge. Mycroft touched the sticky red mess on the back of his head and inspected his fingers quickly, before turning to Molly with a bloody smile and saying "Child lock."

With Molly suitably terrified, Mycroft reached for the unoccupied gun once again. But this time, Molly didn't have to stop him. The car doors next to both him and her flung open simultaneously, and he was hit around the back of his still heavily bleeding heat with something that looked like the handle of a gun. Molly watched, transfixed, as Mycroft's body gave up, his hands falling short of the gun and his head smacking into the seat in front of him. Now completely unconscious, he was heaved from the car by two arms which slid under his arms, his eyes shut.

Molly felt something heavy on her shoulder and jumped about a foot in the air, her breathing laboured and uneven. She twisted around in her seated position as much and as quickly as she could.

"Woah, woah, sweetcheeks. Take it easy."

In front of her stood Adam, his bright eyes not obscured for once by dark glasses, but still in a perfect black suit.

Molly didn't relax, her breathing just as hitched as before. Adrenaline pumped through her, the situation still replaying in her mind like a tape on fastforward. She still hadn't fully understood what had happened.

"Come on, Molly. Jim's waiting for you. You need to get out of the car _now._"

Jim.

Molly took Adam's hand as he helped her out of the car, repeating the words "Come on" quickly under his breath. As soon as she had both shaky feet on the floor, he whisked her off them, picking her up in a fireman's lift and running away from the vehicle.

Thanks to her position, Molly got a full-frontal view of the exploding car, the driver and the blonde woman still inside.

Adam didn't stop running, though, turning through street after street, and soon the blazing car was out of sight, the only trace of it the burning feeling on Molly's face and the faint echoes of the blast still repeating in her ears.

Soon enough, Adam put her down. Her legs couldn't hold her weight though, and she immediately crumpled to the floor.

"Easy, Molly." He knelt beside her and kept her body mostly upright. He was sweating, his forehead covered in a sheen of water, the roots of his hair damp, his suit ruffled. When Molly tried to speak, her voice was cracked and broken.

"The car…"

"Can't be leaving evidence now, can we?" Adam said quietly, with a small smile. "There's all kinds of cameras in those MI6 vehicles."

"Mycroft-"

Adam put his hand on her shoulder. "Shh. Don't worry. You were brilliant, Molly. Fantastic."

He smiled at her, but Molly didn't have it in her to smile back. The events of the night hit her like a brick. Her breathing became laboured again, and she couldn't hold herself up, collapsing straight into Adam. His whispers seemed a million miles away.

There was no question about if people had died tonight. None at all. Molly had seen it. Molly had watched the light die in that innocent driver's eyes, and she'd done nothing. She'd been a part of it. She was a murderer.

Mycroft's crazed expression had imprinted itself in the forefront of her mind… the pure anger when he'd realised his brother was in danger… that was all he was doing, after all, wasn't it? Trying to protect Sherlock? And now he was gone – dead, maybe – and it was Molly's fault.

She barely registered the streams of tears running down her face, cutting through the dried blood and the dirt. She didn't know where the blood had come from, she didn't remember getting hurt – but the windows, they'd smashed, hadn't they? When the bullet hit… when that man had been shot. And then Mycroft… he'd tried to get away and Molly had _stopped _him...

"Molly."

It wasn't Adam's voice that brought her out of her daze. No, he wasn't even there anymore. He'd left her, sobbing, alone in a dark, abandoned room of some kind – she didn't know where she was, she didn't remember even getting there. The light was dim and flickering, coming from a broken bulb above her head.

But it was Jim's face she saw when she came to her senses.

He was clean, unhurt, completely unharmed by the nights events. Had he even been there? Molly didn't know. His clothes were pristine, though, his hair perfect and his smile unfaltering. But it wasn't a false, scary smile – no, it was genuinely there. His eyes looked deep into hers, and this close Molly could see that they were brown, not black; they were the deepest brown she'd ever seen, endless and remarkable, focussed only on her. Mycroft's face disappeared from her head.

Her breathing began to return to normal, but the tears wouldn't stop. Jim's hands were on either of her shoulders, his thumb gently stroking. Molly was dumbstruck, she couldn't get a word out.

"Oh, Molly."

His voice was like velvet, soft, quiet, alluring – never poisonous and threatening as she'd once dreamed, all those weeks ago. No, because this was Jim. _Her _Jim. Nobody else's.

His hands, smooth and gentle, made their way from her shoulder and onto the bare skin of her neck. Molly could have sworn she'd stopped breathing.

"_You were wonderful, my love._" He whispered, dropping his eyes from hers to her lips, his fingers curling around the back of her neck on one hand as the other moved to cup her cheek. He was close, now, closer than Molly had noticed, close enough for him to lightly touch his nose to her affectionately. If his hand hadn't have been supporting her, Molly would have collapsed. Her eyes still stared as his closed, his eyelashes brushing hers, as he closed the final gap and softly pressed his lips to hers.

And suddenly, nothing mattered. Mycroft, Lestrade, the explosion, the dead woman and the driver, Sherlock and Irene disappeared from her mind as her own eyes fluttered closed and only one thought remained.

She was kissing Jim. Her Jim.

She didn't even register the faint, wailing sirens from the fire engines and police cars three streets away.


	15. Chapter 14

**Hey guys ;D  
I had a slight crisis of confidence when the new series of Sherlock came out in January (Jesus, that was ages ago - but _how good was it?_) and now know that to most people, the way I've written these characters are going to seem wildly OOC, but, hey, I've started so I'll finish. It's the plot I was exicted about anyhow, and if I ever write anymore Sherlock in the future, I'll write them a lot more in character... hopefully :')  
Plus, A-levels are a bitch. Thought you'd like to know.  
****Thank you all so much for your lovely, lovely reviews, and I'm sorry that this has taken so long. This chapter is _very _long anyway, (or, _I_ think it is, by my standards, I've read ones considerably longer, but hey ho), in a feeble attempt to make up for the wait :') So, if anybody's even still reading, I love you very muchly, and I can't thank you enough.  
****Just a warning, because I know there hasn't been so far (has there? I didn't mean to), there's like one swear word in this chapter. So, if you're the kind of person who needs to know that stuff, now you know. :)  
****Well then, without further ado;  
****Onwards!**

Chapter Fourteen.

When Molly had watched films in her old flat – the soppy romantic kind that simultaneously made her feel fuzzy inside and want to curl up and cry – she'd scoff when the heroine of the story lay staring at her love interest whilst they slept. In all honesty, she thought it was creepy – Molly often thought whilst watching these films how she _really _wouldn't like to be watched whilst she was asleep, whilst not knowing what was happening around her. No, she was far too paranoid for that. Besides, she doubted that people were very interesting when they were asleep… they were unconscious, after all.

But that morning, lying next to Jim Moriarty, Molly began to see the appeal.

His hair was dishevelled, splayed haphazardly across his forehead, like downy feathers on a baby bird. His eyelashes fluttered, showing he was dreaming, lost in a world that Molly would never know or understand. She kept silent, listening to the sound of his steady, sleepy breathing, watching the regular rise and fall of his chest under the sheets, his lips slightly parted. He was unaware of anything around him, completely vulnerable – he looked so much younger this way, so much _happier. _Molly lay there for what could have been hours, fighting the urge to shuffle under his arm, not wanting to wake him up.

This had been Molly's routine for the past week, during which time – ever since their reunited kiss in the warehouse – she'd slept in Jim's room rather than her own. And, in the morning, she'd wake up and watch him, quietly, trying to let him sleep for as long as possible, leaving him in the blissfully ignorant safety of his own dreams.

Of course, he woke up eventually. But, in true Jim Moriarty style, he still surprised her, speaking before he'd even opened his eyes.

"How long have you been watching me sleep, Molly?"

His voice was deep and slurred, still lost in the world between asleep and awake. Molly blushed into her pillow as his eyes fluttered open. He blinked numerous times, trying to get used to the soft morning light pouring into the bedroom, becoming more aware of his surroundings.

As soon as he was awake properly, he rolled over to face Molly – she was still looking at him, the bottom of her face buried in her pillow, a blush still on her cheeks. He looked at her for what felt like forever, before a soft smile spread across his lips.

"Morning."

Molly couldn't help but smile back. "Hey."

She was at peace, completely and utterly. For the first time in months she was happy and relaxed, thoughts free from any worries, dreams clear of any nightmares. Nothing mattered any more – there was no place she'd rather be, no one she'd rather be with.

Jim leaned across, leaning on stiff limbs to plant a kiss on the top of Molly's head. Molly blushed again, his hand lingering on the side of her face to brush away a stray piece of hair. He seemed to inspect every inch of her face, gently chewing his own lip, the soft brush of his hand still remaining on her cheek, slowly stroking down until it fell between them. Not once did he look away. For one, fleeting, disconcerting moment, Molly was horribly reminded of Sherlock, of the way he'd looked at her that night, cold and calculating but for once actually _looking – _but her thoughts were broken by a soft sigh and a muffled thump as Jim rolled lazily onto his back.

Then, suddenly and without warning, Jim sat up, swinging his legs across to the side of the bed.

Molly frowned. "Are you getting up already?" She could have lay there all day, just watching. Jim, however, apparently had other ideas.

He laughed softly. "Of course, Molly. Big day." He looked at her over his shoulder, still smiling as he slid onto the floor.

And despite her disappointment, Molly couldn't wipe the smile from her own face as she watched him walk to the bathroom.

* * *

"You look happy."

Molly smiled wider, choosing not to reply to Adam's sceptical remark and suspicious, questioning eyebrow. She danced across the kitchen floor to where the kettle sat, dressed in fluffy slipper-socks and pyjamas, sliding across the tiles, Toby circling around her feet. Happily, she kneeled to give the cat some attention, eliciting a contented purr from him - Molly smiled, feeling exactly the same way. She felt like she was floating, unable to keep the grin from her face, not allowing Adam to spoil her mood as she filled up the kettle and switched it on.

"Well? Care to share?"

Molly jumped up to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs against the cupboard, looking up to the ceiling and sighing. "Oh, you know. Just one of those days, isn't it?" She looked down, smiling at Adam. He didn't look amused; a small line had formed between his eyebrows, peering over the newspaper he was holding in confusion.

"No seriously, what's the matter with you?"

The kettle started to whistle and Molly jumped back down, dropping a teabag into a cup and pouring boiling water on to it. She decided to change the subject. "How come you're here so early?" She hadn't seen him much that week – he'd popped in one afternoon a few days ago, but Molly had been too busy smiling to care.

It took Adam a moment to reply, as apparently he decided whether to go with it and let his earlier question drop or not. Eventually, he folded the paper and put it on the table as Molly flung her used teabag into the bin.

"Mr. Moriarty wanted to plan today's _outing,_" he stressed the word, "that's all."

For the first time that morning – that week, even - Molly's good mood faltered. "What? Today?" Jim hadn't mentioned any more 'outing's, as Adam had put it. Not since… Molly shivered, not wanting to think about it.

Adam hummed noncommittally. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." Molly arched one eyebrow as she retook her place on the counter.

_'Course not, not like anyone might _die _or anything. _

Feeling a little sick at her own thought, she reached for the remote and flicked on the TV – at which point she began to feel a whole lot more sick.

"…abduction of a prominent member of the Ministry of Defence. Experts say that Mr. Moriarty is not to be approached, but if sighted…"

Over the past few weeks, Molly had become far too accustomed to the burning desire of wanting to slap the smarmy, plastic newsreader that read the local news on BBC 1. This time, however, it was different. Fear attacked her, trapping her in a chokehold, causing her reversion to the whimpering girl she'd been months before. They _knew _about Jim. They were broadcasting his face, smirking out of the breakfast headlines. Did this mean… Molly's brain immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario – and if Jim wasn't going to be around to protect her, then who was?

Adam, as appropriate as ever, showed no sign of emotion other than the slight flare of his nostrils as he said "Well, that could be problematic". Molly almost threw her mug at his head.

_Why wasn't he panicking? _

"Problematic?" Molly shrieked, an octave or twelve higher than she'd intended. "Adam – they're launching a _hunt _for _Jim. _His _face _is on the _news. _Don't you see? Everyone who's anyone will be after him now – we won't be able to leave the house-"

Molly's voice died when she heard a soft tutting from the other end of the kitchen.

"Molly, Molly, Molly." His voice, chastising but still soft as velvet, mirrored the calm smirk on his face as he looked at Molly with something akin to pity in his eyes but fonder, more affectionate, almost imperceptibly shaking his head.

"Everyone who's anyone was already after me, sweetheart. It's just now there's a whole lot of nobodies on the lookout too."

Molly was pretty sure that the expression on her face made her look something like a fish, but she couldn't find it within herself to care. Helpfully, her brain supplied her with no words to express the building tsunami of fear and exasperation and incredulity and _fear _building up inside of her, leaving her mouth to open and close silently, giving her even more the look of a fish. Finally, she settled on "Jim!"

His smile didn't falter. "Molly!" He echoed her tone, mocking it affectionately. "Don't worry, my love. This is a hiccup – definitely not _problematic, _as you may have put it." He looked pointedly at Adam, who straightened up in his chair but dropped his eyes to stare at his lap.

"It just means we'll have to do some… rearranging, so to speak."

Molly, mouth still agape, frowned. "Rearranging?" She made an exasperated noise, her eyebrows shooting upwards. "Jim!" Her voice was almost supersonic now.

Jim arched one eyebrow, all humour gone from his face in a single movement, like a guillotine snapping down. "_Rearranging, _Molly." His voice was cutting, almost metallic.

Molly closed her mouth, a different kind of cold, unnerving fear pooling at the base of her spine. "You're not going to start panicking on me now, are you?" He began stalking towards her, eyes unmoving, reminiscent of a cat.

Molly swallowed and shook her head. Jim reached her, directly in front of her – Adam was no longer in the room, as far as Molly was concerned. Jim took up too much space in her brain to think about anything else – his soft, lilting voice like a poisonous lullaby, tinged with something venomous.

"Because we've yet to reach our goal, as I'm sure you're aware. I've still yet to reach our good friend Mr. Holmes – and you, dear," he tucked a curl of hair behind her ear, voice still cold and calculated. Molly shivered as he continued, "you, have yet to gain what you so desperately seek."

He leaned across her to reach for the mugs behind her, whispering delicately in her ear as his lips reached it.

"_Revenge."_

And then, just like that, he straightened up, face back to normal, glint back in his eyes as if nothing had happened, leaving Molly's mind lost in the mist of Jim's breath on her ear and the cold, unfeeling stare in his eyes when he'd thought she was giving up.

No, she couldn't give up now. She couldn't risk upsetting him like that again.

Adam, too, seemed to not have noticed anything. He was absentmindedly flicking through the paper once more when he came back into view – he didn't look like the frightened soldier he'd been a minute ago, scared of offending his commander-in-chief. "So, what do we do instead, boss?"

Jim smiled to himself, pouring hot water on a teabag which smelled strongly of peppermint and not making eye contact with anyone but his mug. "I'm afraid I won't be able to attend our next rendezvous – certain nobodies can be very persistent, you know."

Adam nodded. "So, who're you sending instead? Tony? Moran?"

If Molly hadn't been watching him so closely, she wouldn't have seen the slight bristle before the smirk appeared on Jim's face. "Of course not." He said nonchalantly, still not looking up. "I'll be _sending _you and Molly."

Molly's heart leapt into her throat, succeeding in spilling scalding hot tea all over her lap. She slammed down the mug in her hands, causing further spillage, and leapt up in pain. Adam's fingers tightened slightly around the pages of the newspaper, making the paper crinkle under his hands. Jim, finally looking up, bore the expression of a man whom this all amused extensively.

Eventually, Molly stopped focussing on the pain in her legs for long enough to remember why she'd been so outraged in the first place. "What? Jim, we can't go alone! _I _can't go alone!"

Jim's eyebrows arched again. "On the contrary, Molly, you'll be leading the way – I thought you might like to handle Ms. Adler yourself, after all."

The effect was instantaneous. Molly's blood ran icy, her stomach knotting and twisting. She spoke barely above a whisper, barely audible above the continued ramblings of the newsreader behind her. "Irene?"

Jim's smile spread like water, broadening until it almost filled his whole jaw. "Indeed." His face was full of mischief – like a child plotting a trick on his friend, rather than a master criminal plotting an abduction.

Molly decided not to dwell on that point – not that she could have, as at that moment, Jim leapt up, checking his watch ostentatiously.

"Well, would you look at the time! I tell you, kids, I've got a _ton _of work to do." He grinned, cradling his mug of peppermint tea. "I'll just be heading upstairs, shall I? Give you some space to plan." He was already walking away when he added, "I don't want to be disturbed" in a slightly lower voice, despite Molly's numerous protests of "Jim!" and the way she actually followed him to the stairway. He didn't even look back, shouting "Ta-ta for now, lovelies!" over his shoulder as he seemed to dance up the stairs.

With the air of a lost child, Molly turned back to Adam. Looking up from his newspaper, he shrugged and sighed heavily.

"Best get to it then, hey?"

And in that moment, Molly was certain that she was the only one in the entire house who hadn't lost their mind – no matter how appealing the sound of getting one over on Irene Adler once and for all did sound, Jim's breathy whisper of 'Revenge' still lingering in her ear.

* * *

"But how am I going to get her to come to where I want her? This isn't going to work, Adam."

Adam's jaw was set, his eyes still trying to look steely but only succeeding in looking tired. He was just as underprepared as Molly was, Molly knew that – after all, he wasn't in charge, Jim was, Adam was just a soldier of sorts… not that Molly would ever say so.

He slumped down in the chair opposite her – they were in the kitchen again, but Molly was fully dressed now, sitting at the table with her head in her hands and Toby sleeping on her lap.

"You could always just ask her to come."

Molly looked up. "Nice. Genius. Why didn't I think of that?" Adam didn't seem to appreciate her narrowed eyes and the thinly veiled sarcasm in her tone.

"Fine, well, if you can think of something better, let me know, yeah?"

Molly groaned, letting her head drop back into her hands. She heard the scrape of Adam's chair as he stood up and began to pace again. "I'll follow her this afternoon - as soon as we're done here, I'll wait outside Baker Street, see where she's going – and then you can get dropped off wherever she ends up."

"How do we know she's even going anywhere?" Molly protested. "And why can't you just get her yourself? Why do I even have to be involved? I never asked to be."

"No, but Mr. Moriarty asked you to be, and its practically the same thing." He didn't miss a beat, walking back and forth across the space. "Irene's a certain type of person, Molly – she doesn't like to stay in one place for too long, gets antsy if she does, I've dealt with people like her before. She goes out every night – I'd put money on that. And besides," he came to a stop at the end of the table, meeting Molly's eyes and doing a feeble impression of Jim's mischievous smirk, leaning on his elbows on the back of one of the chairs, "don't you want to see to Ms. Adler yourself? To see her," he pushed the small black suitcase on the table towards her, "_go down?"_

Molly eyed the case with pure disgust, ignoring the niggling urge to shout 'Yes!' and grin at the back of her mind. "Why do we have to drug her?" Inside the case was a needle, full of an indiscriminate substance, Molly knew that. Adam wouldn't tell her where he'd got it from, only that he'd done it whilst she was in the shower – and Molly didn't really want to know, either.

Adam arched one eyebrow. "Well, unless you want to hit her with a blunt object, this is the next best thing. Just watch you don't prick yourself on it before you get to her – I think there's a cap on the needle itself, but-"

"I can handle syringes, thanks." Molly's tone was clipped, indignant. She was still a scientist, after all.

Adam smiled at Molly's stony expression. "Great!" He said gleefully, clapping his hands and straightening up. "I'll head to Baker Street then, yeah?"

Molly's eyes widened. She brushed the cat off her knee quickly and stood, moving to chase after Adam. "Wait – what – no! I don't know what I'm doing? When am I going – where am I going? Adam, how do I get her to come to me alone? Don't leave me." She was panicking, words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. Adam rushed to her, holding her shoulders.

"Stop panicking, newbie."

Molly flared her nostrils and looked to the floor. "Don't call me that. I'm not a part of … this, whatever this is."

Adam hummed. "Sure, whatever. Now, listen." She looked up, meeting his clear blue eyes. They were wide and hopeful and… young. Molly felt a little sick. "I told you, just ask Irene to come meet you alone – she's a curious woman who thinks she can hold her own, but as long as we've got the element of _surprise, _we should be good. Tony'll come get you later – remember, the big guy? Don't know where you're going yet, but I'm sure you'll make the best of the surroundings you've got. Just a couple of tips – stick to the shadows, stay as quiet as you can, and only reveal yourself and your weapon at the very last minute, okay? Remember, _element of surprise." _He let go of her shoulders and grinned, excitement plain on his face. Molly was fairly certain her face was set in a grimace. "Molly, you'll be fine, honestly, I've seen you act under pressure before, and I'll come get you at the end. Just one last tip." his grin, if possible, widened. Molly quirked an eyebrow.

"Have a drink before you go – there's vodka in the top cupboard. Dutch courage – best kind there is." And with a wink, he swung himself away from her and marched towards the door.

Molly had just taken advice about drinking and kidnapping and very possibly _assassination _from a boy under 20 who sounded very much like he was speaking from experience.

She surprised herself by not collapsing.

* * *

The thudding of music from the club she was standing outside made Molly's teeth chatter. She stood down the side alleyway, away from the high street and yet still dangerously close to prying eyes and CCTV, the heavy shadows her only hiding place.

Adam had followed Irene here that night, had tracked her right from Baker Street without her noticing. Then, the burly man – Tony – had dropped Molly off and driven away, assuring her that Adam would pick her – and Irene – up later.

This time, she really was alone.

Molly didn't know whether it was stupidity, adrenaline or the alcohol she'd drunk at Adam's insistence, but… well, it was all quite thrilling, really.

She'd sent the message to Irene not five minutes ago, from her new number that Irene wouldn't recognise. It didn't explicitly state who Molly was or what she wanted, as Adam had instructed. Molly still wasn't convinced it would work.

Nonetheless, a simple "Meet me in the alley at the side of the club, five minutes" would have to suffice.

Molly didn't exactly know what Irene was doing in a place like this – was this the kind of place she'd have ended up in if they'd actually made it out of the house that night? Molly scoffed, feeling like she'd dodged a bullet, residual anger bubbling up inside her as she remembered exactly _why _she was there, the alcohol in her bloodstream giving her the necessary – albeit false – confidence to do what she had to do next. What that was, of course, she still wasn't sure; but her blood was pumping so fast she couldn't find it in herself to care. She was here, and she was going to _show _Irene. Show her exactly who she was… show her exactly who she could be.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the music momentarily got substantially louder, a slice of fluorescent, flickering light cutting through the darkness before her. Molly stayed hidden in the safety of the darkness as she saw a figure emerge from the doorway – the side entrance of the club – in a kind of trembling silhouette against the flashes of light behind them.

_Her, _Molly corrected herself, _not them. _She was in no doubt as to who it was.

The heavy metal door closed with a thud, reducing the music back down to a muffled thumping, with only the deep bass beats managing to penetrate through the iron. The light disappeared, leaving the alley in darkness once more aside from a dim light above the door, and leaving Molly unable to see her target.

She did, however, hear the all-too familiar clicking of undoubtedly ridiculously high exploring the platform where she stood one storey above the ground, looking out into the darkness where Molly was waiting, back pressed against the cold bricks of the building opposite.

"Hello?"

Her voice was just as Molly remembered – well, one of the voices Molly remembered. This was Irene's sweet, innocent voice; the voice of an angel, reminiscent of honey and music. But Molly knew better – this wasn't Irene's real voice, not by a long shot. _That _voice was cunning and threatening and smug, unafraid to inflict pain, could cut through the strongest person like a knife.

"… Is anybody there?"

Molly smiled. Adam had been right, of course. She should have knownIrene wouldn't be able to resist this – a mysterious stranger, calling her out in the middle of the night, their motives unclear. It was a puzzle to her, a test. And, of course, she thought that she could defend herself. She thought that she could fight back.

Closing her hand around the syringe in her pocket, Molly coughed in the darkness.

Immediately Irene bristled, turning to where the source of the cough seemed to be – opposite her, obviously, where Molly stood - but the noise seemed to ricochet off the railings in the blackness, leaving her standing at the top of the metal steps with a furrowed brow.

"Seriously? We're going to go there?" Irene's façade slipped, no longer acting the innocent damsel, but rolling her eyes in impatience. "Alright then. Let's play."

She made her way down the stairs, each step clanging through the alley with the sound of heels on metal flooring. Eventually, the noise changed, and it became clear Irene was now standing on the concrete at the bottom, despite the lack of light down there. Her silhouette was barely backlit in the dusty yellow light by the door.

"So come on," Irene shouted to nobody in particular, "who sent you? God knows, I've made enough enemies to warrant _somebody _coming after me. After a little fun, are we?"

She wasn't anywhere near the steps now – Molly needed to get under the stairs, behind Irene, if she was going to have any kind of upper ground. As Irene clicked about in her massive heels Molly thanked herself and her sensibility that she didn't wear such ridiculous shoes – her converse made no noise at all as she shuffled along the concrete to the bins at the end of the dead-end street, silently making her way to the other side and back up to the steps, trying to keep her breathing steady.

"No? Nothing?" Irene kept taunting her invisible stalker. "This really isn't going to be any good at all if you won't talk to me."

Her hand was on her hip, one toe pointed up in impatience as she continued to scan the alley. If she turned, now, she'd see Molly – this side of the alley wasn't nearly as completely shadowed as the other side, and Irene could definitely make out Molly's form in the dim light… the impending nature of what she was about to do, what she _had _to do, sent a jolt of adrenaline through Molly.

It dawned on her, in that moment in the shadows next to some grotty nightclub, that this was it – this was the all-important moment Molly had been waiting for, ever since Irene had waltzed into her life in the first place. This was her chance to shine, to show the _arrogant _redhead in front of her just what she was made of, just who she was worthy of and the kind of person she could be.

This was her revenge.

Without another thought, Molly ran forward, uncapping the needle and swinging it above her head. Irene wheeled around, her expression changing from amusement to confusion to full on shock, but she wasn't quick enough – Molly lunged at her neck and dug the needle in, and Irene staggered back, clutching the spot where the needle had been.

Molly's vision swam, hazy, shadowy silhouettes of Irene hitting the wall behind her as she backed away just about visible. Molly couldn't see her face, could barely see her outline, but could hear the shock and _awe _so crystalline in her voice that Molly couldn't help but grin.

"Molly?"

She felt drunk, watching Irene scrape at the wall with her too-perfect nails for support as the drug that _Molly had injected _began to take hold. Molly made a noise at the back of her throat in agreement, that soon turned into a laugh – she couldn't help it, it was all too much, to see the woman who had overpowered her so just a few short weeks before completely at her mercy, staggering about in her _stupid high heels… _Molly had a feeling that this was exactly what heaven was like.

She walked towards Irene, practically floating, not really sure what she was doing. Her voice was steady, assured, oozing confidence – and why shouldn't it be? She'd done this _alone, _with nobody's help… never again would anyone be able to say that Molly Hooper couldn't stand on her own two feet.

"Hello, Irene."

Least of all Irene Adler.

"But- how – _Molly?"_

The incredulity in her voice coaxed another laugh from Molly. She pulled the torch Adam had insisted she take 'for emergencies' from her pocket in her dream-like state, wanting nothing more than to see the disbelief and amazement mirrored on Irene's face, her hazel eyes round with wonder, her reddened lips open in awe.

Molly wasn't disappointed as she clicked the light on and shone it in Irene's face. Her eyes, though half-lidded from the drug, certainly looked as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing.

"Oh my God, what has he _done _to you?"

Molly's self-assured expression fell into a fierce scowl. She curled her lip as she spoke. "Nothing that you didn't start. Jim fixed me-"

Irene's laugh was a sharp, cutting bark. Molly's knuckles went white as she tightened her grip on the torch, anger curling in her stomach. They were close, now, face to face. The rage burning in Molly's eyes could have lit the street, but Irene's expression didn't change.

"Oh, Molly, you don't get it, do you? Oh, _Molly…_"

And still, even now, even _drugged _by Molly's own hands, Irene pitied her. Fury flared inside her and, without even thinking, she brought the butt of the torch down on the crease between Irene's neck and shoulder with a resolute crack. The other woman fell to the floor with a cry, and Molly stuck her foot on her chest. "I understand perfectly. Jim is _helping _me – a concept which you obviously can't understand."

The drug was really starting to work now, as Irene mumbled and her eyelids drooped further, struggling to stay awake.

"What, not up for talking so much nowadays? It's only been a few weeks… mind you, I guess a lot can change in a few weeks, can't it, Irene?" Molly tried to mirror Irene's sweet, caramel-like tone – and to her surprise, it worked. She wasn't nearly as elegant looking as Irene was, in her figure-hugging dress, elaborate make-up and perfect hair – but she was in control, as proven by the way said long red hair was currently splayed around her head on a concrete pavement.

Molly nudged Irene's face with the toe of her converse. "You'll want to stay awake for a minute, hear what I've got to say."

Irene tried to reply, but could only mumble, as her left hand made an abortive attempt to move. Molly watched in fascination, the words she'd been building up for the past weeks spilling out of her before she could stop them.

"You see, Irene, I'm not that pathetic little girl you judged me to be all that time ago – do you understand that now? I'm so much more than that, and if you couldn't see that then, well, I suppose that's your loss-"

Irene mumbled again. Molly crouched down, her own hair falling across Irene's face as she craned her ears to listen. "What's that? Speak up, dear."

"Moriarty…" Irene managed to breathe. Molly grinned down at her, shining the torch in her face again and humming in agreement.

"That's right. You see, you might have won the battle, Irene, but you most certainly didn't win the war. So, you've got Sherlock – well, I say that, but I think we both know that he'll get bored of you sooner or later, just like one of his experiments; because it doesn't matter how many rungs of the ladder you manage to climb, Irene, in the end you're always going to be nothing to him, that… that _machine. _I can't believe how long I…" she laughed, mostly at herself. "But you see I've got Jim now, Irene. And you can't get to us. Together we're infallible – _untouchable – _and so, _so _powerful… there's nothing that you, or Sherlock _fucking _Holmes, or anyone else can do about that."

Molly, in her light-headed state, didn't notice the fact that Irene's eyelids had closed long ago, her hand gone limp where it had been holding her neck. She only stopped talking at the sound of Adam's voice behind her, giving a low whistle.

"Nicely done, newbie."

Molly straightened herself up and looked over her shoulder at him, still smiling. "I try."

He kept looking at her, scanning her up and down with an expression on his face and a look in his eyes clear without his sunglasses that Molly didn't recognise – one that maybe, Adam wouldn't recognise himself. He stared, unblinking, switching from Molly, to Irene, back to Molly again. He just wouldn't stop _looking. _

Molly found she liked it.

A sharp smile cut across her features. "Come on then, haven't got all day."

Finally, Adam's expression changed, a slower, wicked smile playing with the corners of his lips. "No. No, we haven't." He dug for something in his pocket and threw it to her – Molly caught it; a hip-flask. "Reward." Adam explained, grinning. "Told you, the Dutch really know what they're on about."

He quickly got a hold on Irene – despite her height, she apparently wasn't all that heavy, as Adam swung her over his shoulder with little difficulty, staggering only slightly. Molly stuck to the shadows behind him, putting the used needle and her hip-flask back in her pocket.

"Where are you going, exactly?" Adam asked, obviously amused, over his shoulder. Molly stopped, a crease forming between her eyebrows.

"I – I'm following you."

Molly could hear the smile in Adam's voice. "You did good, newbie, but I'm not the one taking you back. There'll be another car along in a minute, just wait here."

And with that, he walked out of the alleyway, tossing Irene limply into the back of the car parked on the street. Molly didn't have it in her to hope nobody had seen - she trusted Adam, safe in the knowledge he knew what he was doing, after tonight.

Unlike ever before, when Molly thought of the night's events, she couldn't stop herself smiling.

She stayed like that, in her dreamy state, remembering the exact look on Irene's face when she'd recognised her, comparing it to the Irene who'd knocked Molly to the floor all those weeks ago – and laughed, to herself, numerous times in the darkness as she waited, occasionally swigging from the flask Adam had given her, with nothing better to do. The liquid burned her throat, but Molly found she enjoyed it – she'd found she enjoyed a lot of things that night, and whiskey wasn't the weirdest.

When the car eventually pulled up, backing into the alley, all Molly could think about as she was bundled into the back seat by burly Tony was how proud Jim was going to be of her. She could imagine the smile on his face, waiting for her as she got home…

Molly couldn't _wait._

* * *

It wasn't long before she was pushing the door open to her house, listening to Tony's car pulling away behind her. In all that time, she hadn't been able to wipe the grin from her face or Irene's face from her mind.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Jim appeared at the top of the stairs, head tilted to one side and a look of suspicious confusion on his face. It was adorable, really. "Molly?" he asked tentatively, heading slowly down the stairs.

Molly stood with her back to the closed front door, her grin becoming a smirk. Her head felt light, her limbs lighter. As Jim reached the foot of the stairs, he straightened up, his confusion starting to mirror Molly's own smile.

"I assume all went well?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Of course. You talk too much."

Before Jim had a chance to say anything more, Molly got two fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him close, stealing a harsh, fervent kiss from his lips. Soon enough, his hands were in the small of her back, and he was responding with equal enthusiasm.

Because if there was one thing Molly had learnt that night, it was that _she _was in control. She could take what she wanted, from who she wanted – especially with Jim at her side.

In that moment, tight in Jim's embrace, stealing his air and bruising his lips, Molly couldn't understand why she'd ever even _looked _at a man as robotic and feeble-minded as Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
